Underneath the Dying Rambutan
by JudasFm
Summary: Non-slash. Dumped into a Vietnam POW camp with BA, Hannibal's world is turned upside-down one day when he meets a certain young lieutenant. How the Team first got together and escaped the camp. Please R&R!
1. Awakening

It was dark. I had a headache.

This sounds pretty simplistic, I know, but there's no other way of putting it. I've never been one for the whole, 'it was blacker than a witch's cat, a night bereft of moon or stars and my skull felt like tiny gnomes were digging into it with pickaxes in search of gems' spiel.

I was also being shaken by the shoulder, which, now I thought about it, was probably what had woken me up in the first place.

There's an unwritten rule in the Army about shaking sleeping officers (which, coincidentally, is exactly the same as the one about interfering with my cigars). It goes something like this: don't do it if you want to live.

This person, however, didn't seem to have heard of this. The shaking continued and I growled something unprintable under my breath and forced my eyes open.

Well, that solved the problem of it being dark. Now I just had to deal with the headache. On the plus side, I wasn't nauseous or dizzy, and I was still thinking fairly clearly, which meant I wasn't concussed.

On the minus side, it still hurt like a bitch and I was still being pawed by someone.

"_What_?" I didn't bother softening my voice and the shaker backed off.

"Uh…sir? Are you awake?"

I sat up, rubbing my throbbing head tenderly. "I am _now_. What d'you want?"

"Sir? Uh. Colonel Sanders says he wants to see you right now, sir. Something about a chicken."

It was at this point that I began to rethink my concussion diagnosis.

"Look – who are you?"

"Sorry, sir. Allen, sir. Corporal Allen, sir."

I rubbed the back of my head. "Yeah…one _sir_ per answer'll do, Corporal. Where am I?"

Allen licked his lips. "You're, uh, in one of Charlie's death camps, sir."

That was not what I wanted to hear.

"Where's BA?" I found it hard to believe that he'd have gone far, but he clearly wasn't in this small room and I hadn't heard his voice yet.

"Sir?"

"The sergeant I was with. Big black guy, mohawk, about two tons of gold hanging off him in various places."

Now Allen looked as if he thought I were about to punch his lights out. "Uh…well…he, uh, he hit the colonel, sir, and threw a piece of chicken at him, so…" He let the sentence trail off and I groaned. I'd been awake five minutes and already my day was shot to hell.

"Alright, alright. Where is he?"

"Well…he's with Charlie, sir." There was a definite undercurrent of _surely you don't need to ask_ in his voice.

"What?" I frowned, rubbing my head again. The pain there seemed to be getting worse. "We've both been interrogated already. They only send you to a POW camp when they don't think they can get any more out of you."

"Yes sir." I recognised that tone as well; it meant _whatever you say_ and I cursed inwardly. Of _course_ they wouldn't give up on us that easy, how could I be so naïve?

At the moment, though, I felt sorrier for Charlie than I did BA. The sergeant's not one of those guys who believes in cooperating with enemy soldiers (or many friendly ones, come to that), and he was large enough for that to pose a serious problem to the poor saps who have to interrogate him.

"Alright, tell Colonel Sanders—is that really his name?"

Allen swallowed. "Yes sir, it is, and, uh, he doesn't like people laughing at it, sir. Uh. I was supposed to get your name as well, sir."

"Hannibal Smith. Lieutenant-Colonel. Tell Sanders I'll be right out."

When he didn't immediately scuttle away, I raised my eyebrows. "Problem, soldier?"

He swallowed again and I wondered at him, at what was making him so nervous. I could tell he was an experienced soldier, and therefore he must know that if I hadn't exploded at him yet, I wasn't going to.

"Sir, with respect, sir, I was ordered to bring you myself, sir. Colonel Sanders' exact words: bring him back with you. Sir," he added, just in case I didn't think he was being obsequious enough.

Something wasn't right here. I'd had people suck up to me before. Unless there was a damn good reason for it – and so far I haven't been able to come up with one – I usually detailed them onto the heavy work. Even though the slimy ones are easy to manage, I prefer the rebels and the ones with an attitude any day of the week. At least they're not afraid to tell me if I'm about to royally screw something up.

Allen struck me as being too intelligent for a yes-man. Maybe he'd just had a nasty session with Charlie. Torture can do strange things to people.

Well, there was only one way I was going to find out, and so I got to my feet. The room wobbled crazily around me and I put a hand on the wall, which also wobbled. As my other hand brushed against my leg, I found a welcome surprise in my pocket; a packet of cigars and a lighter. I had no idea where they'd come from (although I thought BA might have had something to do with it) but at that moment I was too relieved to care and I pulled one out.

"Ah...sir? Colonel Sanders' orders, sir. This camp is, uh, non-smoking."

I paused, the cigar halfway to my lips. I'd been in the army for almost twenty years, and in all that time I'd never heard of a POW camp with a No Smoking policy.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!"

Allen swallowed. "He's, uh, very strict about it, sir."

I stared at him for a few minutes, then sighed and pocketed the cigar. It wasn't worth upsetting the senior officer this early on. Maybe in a half hour or so.

"Alright. Lead the way."

The camp was in a huge clearing, surrounded on all sides by thick jungle forty feet away. The only nearby sign of life was a giant tree I recognised as a rambutan, fifteen feet outside the fence. Far too far away for us to sneak any of the fruits or pull a cutie like climbing the fence and leaping to the branches, but just close and large enough to offer a little shade. A few ramshackle looking billets had been erected at one end, a smart building at the other. That could only be the camp commander's HQ. Guards surrounded it and both sides of the camp entrance.

Soldiers were scattered around, some standing and talking, some sitting. Some were staring into space. Some were lying down. I'm not a medic, but even I could tell that most of those were never going to get up again.

Allen led me towards one of the billets, stopping outside the door.

"In here, sir."

I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable, and the closed door did nothing for my nerves...or did everything for them, I guess, depending on how you look at it.

There was an atmosphere in this camp. That in itself wasn't unusual; nobody likes being in a place like this. They don't call them _death camps_ for nothing, and there's always the chance that you could be next. But I could also sense a certain resentment in the air as more and more eyes came to rest on me. A few of them were curious. Most were looking at me like I was the last straw.

One guy in his early or mid-twenties who wore a navy blue baseball cap like a badge of rank watched me with an expression of wary interest, like I was a dog who might bite. His entire demeanour seemed to say, _Hmm_... I looked away to ask Allen who he was, only to find he'd strolled off to some men on the other side of the camp. When I looked back, Baseball Cap had vanished so completely I wondered if I'd imagined him.

Well, standing there wasn't going to do anything except piss off this Colonel Sanders, and so I opened the door and walked in.

Sanders was easy to spot. He was the one standing in the middle of the billet chewing out a soldier with violently red hair about the state of the place.

I glanced around. Dirty looking cots had been arranged around the walls, a couple occupied, some not. As far as tidiness went, it wouldn't pass any billet inspections, but this wasn't exactly a parade ground.

The atmosphere was thicker in here, the men feeling – justifiably enough – that they had enough to deal with without having to worry about keeping an immaculate billet as well.

I let Sanders go on until he started to repeat himself, then stepped up.

"Colonel Sanders?" I managed not to grin at the name, but it was a close thing.

The resentment changed a little, became surprised. There's an unwritten rule in the army that you don't interrupt a chewing out unless it's literally a matter of life and death.

Well, nobody could accuse me of being conventional.

He turned to glare at me, and then wilted a little. I wasn't sure if he was younger than I was – I went grey very early on in life, which makes people mentally add about ten years onto my actual age (fifteen on a good day) – but I could tell he wasn't as experienced. He was also nursing a nasty looking shiner on one cheek.

"Who are you?" He tried to inject a note of authority into his voice and almost made it.

"Hannibal Smith, sir. Lieutenant-Colonel. You sent Allen for me." I only just managed to stop myself adding, _remember_? Now that I thought about it, it was a little strange that Allen hadn't introduced me, having made such a point of asking for my name.

A small smile appeared on Sanders' face. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, but it was there and the meaning was clear enough. I ranked below him, therefore I was no threat to his authority. I would fall in meekly with his authority and, of course, obey any order he gave me without question.

Boy, was he in for a shock.

"Oh yes. I thought it best for you to meet the rest of the men, Smith."

_This _was what he'd woken me up for? Introductions? I stared at him, not quite believing what I'd heard and, being me, said the first thing that came into my head.

"Corporal Allen said you wanted to see me about a chicken, sir."

The temperature dropped a few degrees and I wondered if Allen had been setting me up. If he had, the VC weren't likely to be in it by the time I got through with him.

"Yes. An incident involving the sergeant who was with you. Not to worry though; I've dealt with it, as I'm sure he'll tell you once Charlie's finished with him. Now, on to more important matters."

I wanted to ask him what could be more important than one of my men being tortured as we stood around doing nothing, even though in the back of my mind I knew there was nothing we _could_ do, but Sanders didn't give me a chance.

"This is Major Davis."

A harried looking man with electrical burns on both cheeks gave me a rather strange looking salute, mostly due to the fact that someone – probably Charlie – had stamped on his hand and crushed his fingers. Two of them were bending in the wrong direction.

I returned it and he lowered his hand again, looking relieved.

"And these are privates Tennon, Marsters and Jones, corporals Alvarez and Barrett."

I nodded a little curtly. It's not often that I'm awkward, but this really wasn't the way I liked to do things.

"And over here are Young, Gabney and Ferguson." I could tell that Sanders was showing off now, trying to impress me with his knowledge of the men. Each one saluted as he named them, which meant I had to return the courtesy. It was alright for them; they only had to do it once. In the last ten minutes, I'd saluted eleven times, I was feeling like a trained dog and my arm was starting to ache. "And..." Sanders paused, frowning at a soldier who was asleep and who couldn't have passed his nineteenth birthday yet. "Private Haines!"

The kid didn't respond. Sanders reached down, seized Haines' shoulder and rolled him onto his back, and I saw right away that he wasn't sleeping; he was sick. Sweat stood out on his forehead, trickling down his face and there was a pallor to his skin that I didn't like the look of.

Either Sanders was exceptionally arrogant or exceptionally stupid. Or both. Over the years, I've found that the two tend to go hand in hand. Whichever it was, he turned up the shaking until I caught hold of his arm.

"That's really not necessary, Colonel."

I felt the atmosphere change again, as if everyone had taken an imaginary step back from me.

"I say it is, Smith, and since I'm the senior officer in this camp..." Sanders reached down again. This time I inserted myself between him and Haines, who still didn't give any sign of awareness.

"Are you blind? The kid's sick! Leave him alone; he needs to rest." Turning away, I reached down and placed a hand on Haines' forehead, frowning. He was burning up, so much he was painful to the touch.

I straightened up and turned back. "Does anyone have any—" I started to say _water_, but was cut off by a punch from Sanders that not only connected but spun me around and sent me sprawling over Haines' unconscious form.

Had I known it was coming, I would have hit back. This took me so much by surprise, however, that I could only stare at him, stunned.

"Let's get one thing straight, Smith! _I'm_ in command here! I control all the men in this camp and that includes you!"

I got to my feet. Sanders' punch, while not hard, had made my headache worse and I could feel my temper starting to fray.

"Control _me_? You can't even control yourself. With respect, _sir_, this isn't a damn dinner party! Kid needs to sleep, and right now I'm saluted out anyway."

A look that was half fear, half frustration flickered across his face. I guess he had no idea how to handle someone who just brushed off a punch from another soldier as nothing.

_He should try talking to BA some time_, I thought, but that idea was driven out by another, unwelcome one: according to Allen, he already had.

And now BA had been dragged off by Charlie.

"He's faking, Smith."

I was starting to understand why the atmosphere in this camp was so bad. I was also starting to get angry.

"Goddamnit, _look_ at him! Isn't there a medic somewhere in this camp?"

Private Tennon cleared his throat. "Uh...there _was_, sir."

"Hannibal." Don't ask me why I said that. Usually I try to maintain the officer-subordinate relationship no matter what situation I'm in (with a couple of rare exceptions). Maybe I was subconsciously trying to establish a definite divide between myself and Sanders...or more likely, I was pissed and on the jazz, and so regulations could go hang. "What happened to him?"

Tennon glanced from me to Sanders and back to me again. "He, uh...made a couple mistakes, and...uh..."

Young, who was the redhead I'd seen being chewed out by Sanders, rolled his eyes. "Charlie came down and grabbed him, Hannibal, and when he got out he was badly beat up. It got infected, he died." There was an air of wary defiance when he said my name, like he was daring me to call him on it even after I'd invited Tennon to use it.

"Private Young, you will show a little respect to your superior officers!" That was Sanders, not me, and I stepped in.

"If I want respect, Sanders, I'll earn it myself. The soldier was just answering my question, since you didn't seem able to."

He stared at me, then I could actually see him letting it go, deciding to give me the benefit of the doubt. I was clearly scared, disorientated and that was driving me out of my mind, otherwise I'd never dare to speak to him like that.

"Yes, well, if anyone gives you any trouble, I'm sure Charlie will sort them out."

You know, even after serving in one war and here in Vietnam, I was still naïve enough to think he was making a joke; a joke in bad taste, admittedly, but a joke nevertheless.

Then I saw the way the other men seemed suddenly interested in the floor, the ceiling...anything, in fact, except me and Sanders.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

Sanders raised his eyebrows. "You seem like an intelligent man, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith. I'm sure you can work it out." He stressed the _lieutenant_ ever so slightly. This was a guy who enjoyed lording it over his subordinates, and I suddenly had a very good idea why Allen had been so nervous. Either he was going to get chewed out by me for waking me, or booted into Charlie for interrogation for screwing it up...or maybe both. If I'd known that, I'd have gone a little easier on the poor guy.

Just so there was absolutely no misunderstanding, I said to Sanders, "So if someone screws up or doesn't salute every time they lay eyes on you—"

"Or _you_," Sanders interrupted with an indulgent, no-hard-feelings smile.

I didn't acknowledge this; instead I said, "You get Charlie to sort them out?"

"Well, Smith, let's just say that the camp commandant's always happy to receive names. Like that gorilla who was brought in with you. He refused to salute me, threw a piece of chicken at me. Half an hour later, he's with Charlie and I doubt we'll have any more trouble from him. In fact, I could say the same for a lot of people."

Off to one side, Private Tennon muttered something that sounded like, "Except Murdock."

Sanders whirled so fast I thought he was going to fall. "Who said that?"

The fact that he didn't know said more about his capabilities as a leader than anything I'd seen so far.

Surprisingly, nobody seemed tempted to own up and Sanders glanced at me. "Smith?"

I raised my eyebrows, a slight grin on my face. "Me? Sorry, Colonel. Not guilty."

I had the measure of him now. Not necessarily a bad man – if he survived the war, I thought he'd have several guilt-ridden, sleepless nights about the men he'd sent to Charlie – but a lousy officer. Kind of a mirror image of Decker, really. I didn't think he was a traitor either, just a very weak guy who was in over his head and had no idea how to keep order except through fear. I had no idea how the hell he'd even made it to captain, much less colonel, but then, promotion's damn fast in wartime.

Sanders didn't so much as crack a smile. "Smith."

"Oh. Right. Sorry, I was dazed by your punch. I didn't see." I deliberately left off the word _sir_ in an effort to divert some of his fury to me. "And...for future reference, Sanders, I don't like you sending my men to Charlie just because they didn't salute you."

He froze for a tense few seconds, then unfroze again. "As you so aptly put it, Smith, this is _not_ a dinner party."

"It's not a parade ground either! We've got enough to cope with as it is, without having to worry about feeding your ego!"

Now everyone was staring at me, and I knew I'd hit it on the head; Sanders wanted everyone to know that he was in charge and that as senior officer, his word was law. If that meant waking some poor kid with a fever to make him salute me just to prove his point, then he and I had a problem.

"May I remind you, _Lieutenant-Colonel_ Smith, that _I_ am the senior officer in this camp! Your men come under _my_ command now. And that includes that so-called sergeant of yours!"

Was it really possible that anyone in this situation could be so pompous? I wondered. Pulling out a cigar, I lit it, inhaled and blew out smoke before speaking.

"Well, you're gonna have a hard time convincing him of that," I remarked pleasantly.

Sanders stared at me. "I don't like smoking, Smith."

I grinned. "Oh, I know. Allen told me. I just think better when I'm smoking."

"It's not your job to _think_, soldier; just to follow orders."

Now, I can't deny that line sums up the tenets of Army life – I've used it myself once or twice – but something about the way he said it pissed me off and I gripped his wrist hard.

"Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you, Sanders."

You know, I hadn't set out to cause trouble, much less usurp him. Hell, if he'd been a good officer, I'd have been happy to serve under him. I had enough problems handling BA; the last thing I wanted to do was take on a POW camp as well. Sanders, however, didn't seem to see it that way.

"You are dismissed, _Lieutenant-Colonel_."

Maybe it was his arrogance that got me, although usually I don't have a problem with arrogant officers...so long as they're good at their job. Maybe it was the fact that he looked set to go back in on Haines, who hadn't stirred even when I'd fallen on top of him. Maybe it was the fact that something about Sanders made my teeth hurt. Maybe it was because he'd just snatched away my cigar, or maybe it was all of the above.

Whatever it was, something inside me snapped and I punched him, grabbing my cigar back from him as he went down.

"So are you," I informed him.


	2. Murdock

**Max: Oh, don't worry; you'll have to try a **_**lot**_** harder than that to discourage me XD Let me try and clear the points up (Everyone else, feel free to skip down; this was an anonymous review so I have to answer it here, but it's **_**long**_** ;))**

**1. **_**Why are there buildings**_**?**

**Because there would have been buildings in the POW camps. Without shelter, none of the POWs would have survived longer than a few weeks, maybe longer if they had unlimited access to fresh, clean water, which seems to me far more unlikely than having a few rather shabby huts. (Granted losing POWs might not have worried the Viet Cong, but there are plenty of Vietnam vets still around who spent time in a POW camp, some of them months or even years). Hannibal mentions that the camp commander 'liked to starve the men' and later accuses Angel of eating smoked almonds while the rest of the men were living on 'grass and cockroaches'. It would take a long time to get to that stage, and even longer to starve to death, so they were in the camp for quite a while, which would only have been possible with shelter.**

**Speaking even more canonically, in the episode **_**A Recipe for Heavy Bread**_** when the guys are talking about Lt. Angel in the POW camp, Murdock refers to him as "That slime from C-Barracks?" It's implied throughout the episode that the guys only really encountered Angel in the POW camp, so 'C-Barracks' likely refers to a building (you wouldn't call a corner of a bare patch of land a 'barracks' XD) **

**2. **_**BA wouldn't have been wearing his gold during the war.**__**If he had, I doubt the Viet Cong would have left him with it!**_

**Who said they did? Bear in mind he hasn't shown up yet and Hannibal hasn't seen him; the only mention of it is when the colonel describes BA as 'having two tons of gold hanging off him'. Hannibal didn't know where he was when he woke up, so he didn't see BA before they were brought there. Granted he'd probably have figured out about the gold, but again, he'd just woken up in a strange place with a thumping headache and was pretty groggy ;)**

**All that aside, these (and a couple other points, including the chicken) have already been thought of and addressed in this and future chapters, so please bear with me and be a little patient :)**

**MG: There's nothing I can really answer except to read on and keep reading. Like I said, I have already considered your points; I just can't answer everything in the first chapter ;)**

Was I insane?

Yeah, probably. Sanders looked like the kind of guy who bore a grudge, and I didn't want to be Charlie's next victim, but that had never stopped me before. Besides, I couldn't let him harangue a sick man just to prove to me that he was the big fish in this pond.

So. Step one, get rid of Sanders. And Davis. I wasn't sure how loyal the major was to Sanders and I was taking no chances.

Luckily that would be easier than I thought; either Sanders had a glass jaw or I'd hit him harder than I'd meant to. Either way, he was out for the count with a mouth full of blood and broken teeth, all of which suited me fine just then.

"Major!"

Davis jumped and glanced up at me with a guilty expression, although I didn't find out why until much later.

"Sir?"

I nudged the unconscious colonel with my toe. "Take Sanders back to the officers' billet and stay with him. I'll talk to you both later."

The major shifted his weight. "Uh..."

"Did I stutter, Major?" I put a touch – just a touch – of sharpness into my voice and he cringed as though I'd pointed a gun at him.

"Uh...no sir."

"Then get to it." Glancing at his crushed fingers, I looked up at the other men and added, "One of you can give him a hand."

Young stepped forward and I pushed him back again. "Not you, kid. I want him out of here in one piece." I glanced around the assembled men and picked the healthiest looking. "Tennon, you help him."

Tennon didn't look too thrilled at the prospect but he obeyed, looping one of Sanders' arms around his shoulders and helping Davis carry the unconscious colonel outside, leaving me alone with the men. There was still an atmosphere, but it had changed a little. I could be like Sanders – I could even be worse than Sanders, although I wasn't sure how – but after I'd just punched him in the face, they were now open to the possibility that I might not be.

Well, that was fine. I hadn't expected them to immediately take to me, not when they didn't have a clue who I was or what I was likely to do, and not with a jerk like Sanders running the place for...for...actually, that was a good point.

"How long has Sanders been in charge?"

For some reason, all eyes turned to Corporal Alvarez.

"Two months. I was with him when he arrived, sir."

"Hannibal. Two months, huh?" It was no wonder that morale – never particularly high in these places – was at rock bottom. People like Sanders could do a hell of a lot of damage in two days, let alone two months. It also made my job much harder.

"Until now, I guess." Young took half a step forward, staring at me. "You taking command...Hannibal?"

I didn't answer, just stared at him until he dropped his eyes and then said, "Looks that way," and turned back to Private Haines, who was still sweating and feverish. "Someone tell me about this guy. How long's he been like this?"

"About a week."

I stared at him. "_How_ long?"

"We've been doing all we can but we don't have any supplies, and with Bateman gone..."

"Bateman was the medic?"

"Yeah."

"So...there was only one medic here, and Sanders got him killed for refusing to lick his boots." It was just as well the colonel was no longer in the room, otherwise I might have knocked out the rest of his teeth. Me, I could take out a bullet and dress a wound, but that was about my limit. I wasn't a medic and I had no idea how to bring down a fever like this one besides water, and callous as it sounded, we needed to keep the water for the living.

"He's dying, isn't he?" Young said bluntly.

That had to be the question I hated the most. The instinct was always to reassure, to say that no, the person was going to be just fine.

Unfortunately, I'd been in the Army long enough to learn that in this kind of situation, that was very rarely true. I'd also learned that if I tried the comforting, reassuring approach and the guy died anyway, it was somehow always my fault.

"Colonel?" Young pressed.

I glanced over my shoulder and said very quietly, "Yeah." Straightening up, I looked down at Haines. "There's nothing I can do. He needs medicine."

"Or fresh water, si—Hannibal." That was Gabney, who had a rather hangdog look about him. "If he had enough fresh water, he might be able to ride it out."

I shot him a look. "Right, well, as long as we're all making wishes, I'd like a steak dinner and a chopper out of here, but we happen to be stuck in this tiny little place called Reality."

Yeah, alright, I know it was a little harsh, but I couldn't think what else to say. There's nothing worse than being forced to sit back and watch someone die a long, slow death.

"So you can't do anything?" Young again. The kid seemed determined to challenge me. I didn't think he was anti-officer though; I just thought he'd been soured by Sanders, and maybe a couple other bad ones before he wound up here.

"I never said I could." My voice was very quiet, a sure sign that I'm not happy.

He met my gaze without flinching. "So are you going to tell us what Sanders said? That we should just drag Haines outside and leave him to die? Free up his cot for an officer, _sir_?"

"Now what gave you that idea?" I could feel anger flickering inside me, not at Young but at Sanders. While it's true that officers have more privileges, I'd never heard of one taking away from his own men before. I was also a little pissed that Young seemed to be talking about me when he mentioned freeing up Haines' cot.

"Rule of the camp. There aren't enough cots to go around and Sanders says the officers all have to get one, since they're in charge and they need to stay as healthy as possible in order to maintain command."

Something about that sounded vaguely familiar. I wondered if Sanders had ever read _Animal Farm_.

"Yeah, well, as far as I'm concerned, it's a rule you can break right here and now, and if anyone here has a problem with that – including Sanders – tell him to come see me."

I returned my attention to Haines, even though there was nothing I could do for him (except stop him being turfed out of his own cot).

Behind me, I heard Barrett mutter, "Can't wait to see what Murdock thinks of this new guy."

This was the second time I'd heard that name, but so far I had no face to put with it and no information other than Sanders didn't seem to like him.

"Who's Murdock?"

There was a short pause, then Ferguson said, "Murdock's...Murdock."

The way he said it told me that this should explain everything. It didn't.

"A little more detail than that, soldier."

"Uh...well, he's a pilot, but Sanders hates him, so he spends most of his time with Charlie."

I raised my eyebrows. "Really? What's Sanders got against him?"

The men exchanged looks, then Young said, "Probably the fact that Murdock said Sanders was a sniveling little grub and that he'd picked things out of his teeth with more guts and moral fibre."

"No kidding." I grinned. That was a good one; I'd have to remember it. "Well, griping about superior officers is all part of being in the Army."

Next to him, Gabney looked, if it was possible, even more awkward. "Well, yeah, but...not many people do it to their face, and not at the top of their lungs, and, uh, not just after they've thrown a cup of water in the superior officer's face."

"When was that?"

Something must have convinced them that I wasn't about to get angry; the atmosphere loosened very slightly and Alvarez said, "Last month."

"And three weeks ago—"

"—and two weeks—"

"—and, uh, most of last week—"

"And yesterday."

"Does he hate officers?" That was all I needed; another BA. I could just about control one, but _two_?

Another wary look – since I was an officer, and a pretty high-ranked one at that, this was getting into dangerous territory – then Gabney said, "I don't think so. I mean, he's _Captain_ Murdock. He just doesn't get along with the colonel. I think he respects us more than he does Sanders."

That wasn't hard. I mean, _I_ respected them more than I did Sanders, and I'd only just met them.

"Where is this Murdock?" I asked.

"Since he upset Sanders, probably with Charlie."

I nodded and straightened up. "Alright. I'm going to take a walk, check out the rest of the camp. If Murdock's up to it when he comes out, tell him I want to talk to him. Only if he's up to it; I don't want to try and hold a conversation with a guy who's half unconscious."

Turning, I made my way outside. The camp hadn't changed much since I last saw it about twenty minutes ago. Still the same old buildings – dilapidated looking huts for us, a nice place for the camp commandant a little way outside the fence. At least we had shelter in this camp.

There was still no sign of BA, and I was now starting to worry. Not too much though, since a) there was nothing I could do and b) I was a little too busy trying to figure out how to manage this place. Captain Murdock – whoever he was – might be able to help out some, but I wasn't holding out a lot of hope. At best, he'd be just another typical officer; at worst, he'd be a weak little coward like Sanders...although the men's description of him did make me wonder.

Whichever it was, he seemed popular with the men and so I wanted him on my side as quickly as possible before Sanders did something stupid like trying to retaliate. I didn't know how many allies he had, and I didn't want to find out the hard way either. From what I could make out, there was a definite divide in this camp; Sanders and Davis vs. Murdock. The only question was, would this Murdock guy and I be on the same side, or would it become Sanders and Davis vs. Murdock vs. me? I hoped it was the former; I didn't think this camp could survive a three-way schism.

I could feel eyes on me as I wandered around. The whole attitude of the camp towards me seemed to be, _oh great, another officer_, _that's all we need_. That was hardly surprising, although word was already starting to spread about the little chat Sanders and I had had. I guess a major and a private dragging an unconscious colonel through the camp does attract attention.

"SMITH!"

Of course, that wasn't the only thing that did, I admitted to myself as I turned to see a newly recovered and furious looking Sanders. There was something else in his eyes though; a little glimmer of fear. I was a serious threat now, I'd humiliated and defied him once already and so naturally he had to make an example of me ASAP before anyone else got the same idea.

Well, there was no escaping it and so I wandered vaguely in his direction, taking care not to hurry. On the plus side, Sanders' bellow was loud enough that everyone in the camp now knew my name, which saved me having to wander around and introduce myself.

"SMITH!"

Why he was calling me again when he could already see I was on my way toward him, I had no idea...unless he wanted an audience when he chewed me out.

Wonderful. I'd been wondering how Sanders was going to react, and it turned out he was going to react by taking his head out the sand and sticking it up his butt.

"There is absolutely no excuse for assault on a superior officer!"

"Oh, that wasn't assault," I told him, taking my cigar out my mouth and examining it.

"Wasn't it?"

"Of course not." I smiled at him. "You had a mosquito on your lip. I was just swatting it for you."

Sanders took a deep breath. Really deep. I figure that guy must've been inhaling for at least five seconds before he finally spoke.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Smith—"

"Oh, that's alright, Sanders." I sucked in a good lungful of smoke and expelled the whole lot in his face. "No need to thank me. It was my pleasure. After all, you were the superior officer." I put a careful emphasis on _were_, much the same as Sanders kept doing on the _Lieutenant_ part of my rank. Decker does exactly the same thing, only it's more of a joke between us. At least, I think it's a joke. I doubt Decker would understand the concept of humor if you explained to him with sock puppets.

This little jibe on my part did not go unnoticed.

"As the highest ranking officer—"

"—you can court-martial me when we get outta here, sure," I interrupted him. "And if you need anyone to speak against me, just look up Decker. He's a full Colonel just like you, so the two of you should get on like a house on fire." With plenty of heat, flying debris, poisonous smoke and the odd scream of pain and/or terror from those unlucky enough to get caught in the middle of it, I thought to myself, grinning. I couldn't help hoping Sanders would be stupid enough to take me up on it once we were out. Decker's opinion of traitors and cowards was even lower than mine.

Sanders' eyes narrowed in such a Deckerish way I wondered if he'd ever met the guy.

"You are clearly not thinking straight, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith. Understandable, given the circumstances, but you should make some effort to set an example to the men. It's good for morale."

It's not often that I'm speechless. In this case it was a good thing I was; if I'd been able to say even half of what I thought at that moment, not only would Sanders have dragged me off to Charlie that very second but he'd probably have raised my voice a few octaves into the bargain.

Fortunately he seemed to take my strangled silence as consent; he smiled and said, "Good," then strolled away.

I could feel the atmosphere charge up again. This time it was directed at me and best described as _I knew he was too chicken to see it through_.

Well, that was easy enough to fix. I raised my voice.

"Sir!" I hated turning that word on Sanders, but I suspected it was the fastest way of getting his attention. I was right too; he turned smartly and with a military precision that even Decker couldn't have faulted.

"Smith?"

I didn't smile. Smiling would have turned it into bravado; instead I just spoke to him calmly and in a voice designed to carry through the entire camp.

"I'm not the one screwing morale up here. You're a coward and a traitor, and one hell of a lousy officer."

Okay, so maybe that last one was a little pompous, but I'd met his type before. You know the kind: the one who spends all day fantasising about stepping in and saving the day when everyone else has given up, taking out scores of enemies single-handedly. The kind of man who could describe war as _glorious_ and mean it. Officers like that could wipe out their entire unit much faster than any enemy troops.

The point I'm making, though, is that calling someone like that a lousy officer is the worst possible insult you can give them.

I have to say, though, I was impressed by Sanders' reaction. Seriously. I had no idea the human face could turn red so quickly.

"I'd be careful, Smith. You're beginning to try my patience."

Alright, I take back what I said earlier. There was no way I could be called pompous, not all the time there were guys like this hanging around.

"Sounds like a threat." I drew in a lungful of smoke and blew it out into Sanders' face, watching with some interest as he went green, then white with fury. The guy was like a walking traffic light.

He reached out for my cigar, but I was a little quicker; I dodged away, grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back. It was purely reflexive – I hadn't actually intended to hurt him – but it worked; he let out a grunt and suddenly seemed to lose interest in helping me quit smoking.

"Rule one, Sanders." I raised my voice so the rest of the men who were pretending not to listen in could hear. "You do _not_ touch my cigars. _Ever_!"

I released him and backed off a little. However useless an officer he was, he was still a soldier and (presumably) trained in hand-to-hand combat. He could be dangerous.

"This camp—"

"—has a No-Smoking policy, I know." I'd never heard of such a crazy thing in my life. If Sanders hadn't confirmed it himself, I would have thought Allen was pulling my leg. I had a couple rules about smoking myself (don't do it on parade or other formal occasions, and any cigar or cigarette butts I find on the floor of your billet will be stuffed up your nose with extreme prejudice) but I'd never been stupid enough to try and stamp it out entirely. I didn't know what was worse; the fact that Sanders had brought this into effect or the fact that he was stupid enough to think he could enforce it.

I blew a little more smoke in Sanders' face to see if I could get it to turn blue this time. Nope. No such luck.

"Sorry, Sanders. Guess you're just gonna have to get used to the sweet smell of cigar smoke, at least until I run out."

"The rest of the men seem to have accepted it, Smith. I've never caught any of them smoking."

There was no way I could have stopped the broad grin that spread across my face at that moment, even if I'd wanted to.

"I'm quite sure you haven't, Sanders," I told him with more sincerity than he'd have believed.

That said, cigarettes would be hard to come by. The VC rarely bothered to confiscate them (or at least, didn't bother searching too hard for them) but still...with Sanders on the alert...

Great. Not only was morale at rock bottom and the men wary of anyone above the rank of sergeant, but a chunk of them were savage with nicotine withdrawal. Short of a miracle, I had a nasty feeling I'd be joining them before too long. No matter how strictly I rationed myself, chances were I'd run out of cigars long before we were rescued or managed to get out of here.

Sanders, the idiot, seemed to take this as admiration of his skills as an officer and favored me with a smile that almost got him another punch.

"Hand it over."

I smiled. "Sorry. No can do." I puffed another cloud at him. "You want 'em, you're gonna have to come and get 'em."

Like most of my moves, it was bold, it was daring, and it was crazy as hell. Any one of the men standing around watching could have tackled me then to get brownie points from Sanders and avoid being the next one sent down to Charlie. Out the corner of my eye, I saw one take half a step forward.

"Stand down, soldier." I didn't look around as I said it; taking my eyes off Sanders would probably result in a broken nose.

He hesitated, then fell back a pace, glancing at his buddies, none of whom seemed inclined to take his place.

Sanders' eyes hardened as he stared at me. I think he was trying to make me submit by sheer force of will.

"Alright. You're stressed, it's an automatic reaction. I'll allow you to finish this one, Smith, but after that you'll fall in line with the rest of the men."

I think he expected that to win me over. Instead it just shot down any little respect or sympathy I still had for him; if I told a subordinate to hand over something, then he'd hand it over immediately or I'd know the reason why. Sanders thought of himself as magnanimous, the wise and sympathetic officer who was willing to make allowances for the bewildered, shell-shocked subordinate he seemed to believe me to be.

"...What?" I said. Not the most original or inspiring of military quotes, I admit, but it is pretty widely-used.

"You heard. Now let's go; we're behind schedule. There are other people you need to meet."

Was he serious? I stared at him, not believing what I was hearing. Just as before, he seemed to take my stunned silence for acquiescence; he turned and strolled off.

I continued staring at his retreating back, then turned and walked back to the building where I'd first woken up. It looked even worse from the outside, and inside it was stifling, but I needed a place to think things through, plan my next move. I didn't think he'd come back for me; having to haul my ass over himself would be just too humiliating for him.

I sat down on the cot and slammed a clenched fist into it once or twice. I was just as frustrated as Sanders was, in my own way. I'm not squeamish, but I couldn't bring myself to assert my authority over Sanders by beating him to a pulp either and since he technically had a higher rank, I didn't see how I could take command without help. Another officer would have been ideal, but so far I'd only met Davis, and he was firmly wedged in Sanders' butt crack. I wasn't sure how much of that was loyalty and how much was an attempt to stop himself being Charlie's next victim, but it came to the same thing as far as I was concerned: no help from that section.

At the minute, I didn't know enough about the camp, its commander or its inmates to take it away from Sanders. The men I'd met so far might back me, but only if I could guarantee Sanders wouldn't throw them straight to Charlie for the privilege. BA would certainly support me; the hard part was going to be convincing him that he wasn't an army in his own right and stopping him from taking action accordingly.

Sending Sanders to Charlie...no. No, because even if I could bring myself to sell someone out, if I did that to him, it would be too easy to do it to someone else. I wasn't going down that route, no matter how odious the man was.

The worst part was that I still didn't want to take command of this place. I'd do it, of course, because the men here needed a good officer (or at the very least, one who wouldn't send them along to the same people he was supposed to be protecting them from) but I was a little younger than I am now, and I still thought that maybe I could talk some sense into Sanders.

A shadow fell across me, and I glanced up, coming face to face with the same guy I'd noticed earlier, the one with the baseball cap.

"Yes?"

"Captain Murdock. You sent for me, Colonel."

It wasn't a question, and the unspoken _why_ hung in the air between us. I have to say, I was surprised; not only was Murdock younger than I'd expected (I pegged him in his mid-twenties) but he didn't seem to fit the normal officer stereotype.

"Yeah, I did. C'mon in, take a seat."

He obeyed, perching on the edge of the spare cot and studying me curiously. He neither respected nor disrespected me at that moment, because he didn't know me. I was just a faceless officer.

And I liked that. I liked that he wasn't going to agree blindly with everything I said and/or thought, just because I outranked him. He reminded me of myself at that age...and at this age, come to think of it.

The other thing I got instantly was his intelligence. That was harder to pin down...just something in the eyes, something in his face told anyone looking at him that this kid was _smart_. Certainly far smarter than Sanders. Maybe even smarter than me.

He was also nursing a nasty looking cut on one cheekbone. Blood had seeped out of it, turning his entire cheek red, and I could see a burn across his forehead.

"Are you okay? I mean, are you up to talking?"

Murdock shrugged. "I'd only talk to the other guys if I wasn't here. Since you summoned me, I figured I may as well talk to you."

"I'm flattered, Captain." I couldn't quite keep the dryness out of my voice. "Alright then, let's talk. Tell me about Sanders."

I could see him weighing that one up, weighing _me_ up, trying to decide whose side I was on. I didn't say anything, just let him come to his own conclusions. Eventually he decided to opt for neutrality.

"Full colonel, belongs to the—"

I held up a hand, cutting him off. "I don't want his military record, Captain. I just want to know if it's true he's been using Charlie to settle his own personal vendettas."

There was no hesitation as he answered, "A lot of people in this camp seem to think so, sir."

The political answer made me smile. "You don't trust me, do you, Murdock?"

He looked me straight in the eyes and said without a trace of embarrassment, "Not really, sir, no. I mean, I only just met you."

My smile became a grin. I was liking this guy more and more. I'm one of those rare people who prefers brutal honesty to tact and evasion.

"Good answer," I told him. "Now let's see if you can give me another one: does Sanders turn Charlie on people who upset him? Because I knocked out two of his teeth earlier, then I insulted him and put him in an armlock, and I'd really like to know if I'm gonna be next on his hit list."

Murdock sat up a little straighter, looking at me with new interest, and I could tell I'd just gone up in his estimation from Faceless Colonel to Potential CO.

"What, you punched Sanders in the face?"

"Yeah. That was after he told me it was a good idea to sic Charlie on anyone who was too busy trying to survive this place to salute me every time I blinked. So I'll ask you again for the last time, Captain—" I put just a hint of military authority into my voice— "is it true that he uses Charlie to settle personal vendettas?"

Murdock relaxed a little. "Kinda hard to say, Colonel. I mean, he don't haul us there kickin' an' screamin', but..."

"But?" I prompted.

"It just...it happens too often for it to be a coincidence. Especially to me." There was no resentment in his voice; he was stating a fact. "Maybe to you too, if you punched him."

"You didn't?" I found that hard to believe; while Murdock didn't seem as violent as BA, he didn't strike me as the squeamish type either.

"Nah. Davis got in the way. He said he'd been ordered to stop me whalin' on Sanders, and I felt kinda sorry for him. If I hadn't let him stop me, he'da been sent to Charlie with me. He ain't much good at his job an' he can't think much beyond what his superiors tell him to think, but I don't got a problem with him."

So even being loyal to Sanders wasn't enough to keep you safe, I thought grimly. If I'd known _that_, I wouldn't have just locked his arm; I'd have broken it.

"Is Sanders a traitor?"

Murdock shook his head. "Nah. That's the one thing he ain't, whatever his other faults."

I frowned as I considered this. "So why should Charlie listen to him? He might be a colonel, but he's still just a POW."

He shrugged. "Charlie likes to torture POWs. He picks 'em at random, but if a high-rankin' officer starts tellin' him which might be the best guy to talk to, well, might as well torture him as anyone. An' nobody's ever _seen_ Sanders talkin' to any a the VC, sir, but like I said, people who upset him always get picked before the day's out."

"So he is a traitor, then."

Murdock grinned, although there was no humor in it. "He's a guy havin' a nervous breakdown is what he _is_, Colonel. He can't cope with the pressure of runnin' this camp, he can't cope with Charlie breathin' down his neck, he can't cope with not bein' able to cope..." He shrugged. "Somethin' was bound to give sooner or later. Just a shame it was his mind."

I didn't say anything. Despite Murdock's words, a soldier who sold out their own men for _any_ reason was a traitor as far as I was concerned.

"How many officers are there?"

"Five, includin' you and me."

I ran through the list of officers I'd already met and frowned when it stopped at four.

"Who's the fifth?"

"Lieutenant Angel. Navy. An' if you thought Sanders was scum, Colonel, you jus' wait until you meet that guy. Sanders sends people to Charlie 'cause he got no idea how else he's supposed to keep discipline. Angel sells 'em out in exchange for a hot meal."

The mention of food made my stomach growl. "Yeah, what happens with food around here?"

Murdock's lips quirked in a grim smile. "We get it. Sometimes. When they can be bothered to remember, an' if we're _real_ lucky, they might forget to spit on it first. No plates though; you eat out your hands or off the ground."

I couldn't tell if he was kidding or being serious. Neither would have surprised me.

"Sanders said BA threw a piece of chicken at him." I'd wondered about that ever since I heard it; chicken may not sound like much, but it was pretty luxurious fare for a POW camp.

Murdock grinned. "Yeah, he got that from Angel. Charlie gives him food for names an' information, like I said. Sometimes he eats in the camp commander's HQ, an' sometimes he likes to eat out here. Chicken, almonds, rice, vegetables...guy's got a real mean streak."

"Why'd he throw chicken at him?" Knowing BA as I did, I'd expected him to throw a punch.

Murdock shrugged. "Well, there wasn't any meat left on it, jus' the bone. He got a little mad 'cause Angel was makin' such a fuss 'bout eatin' it in fronta everyone an' Sanders wasn't doin' anything."

My stomach gurgled again and Murdock's grin broadened.

"Oh yeah. You wait 'til you been here a few weeks. You're sittin' or lyin' around and you smell that hot, savory food, with juices, spices—"

"Captain, if you don't stop talking about food I'm gonna tell Sanders you're planning to put a snake in his bed."

"Ah, shoot, Colonel. Who told ya?"

I grinned. "You know, I think I like you, Murdock."

He raised his eyebrows. "Only _think_? Aw, that's too bad. Well, lemme know when you're sure."

I laughed. "Yeah, I'll do that. Speaking of beds, where does Sanders rest that weary little head of his at nights?"

"B Barracks, an' Davis is in D. Sanders wants at least one officer sleepin' in each billet. Says it's important in this situation to break down the barriers between officers and their men, be one of 'em, show they can trust him." Murdock didn't bother keeping the contempt out of his voice as he said these last words.

Ah. That explained Davis' confusion when I'd told him to dump Sanders in the officers' billet. It also meant I'd have to do something about the sleeping arrangements ASAP. The NCOs could bunk with them, that would just about be okay, but there's something about putting an officer in the same billet that makes men nervous. Even I couldn't change that, so I might as well accept it and work with it.

Unfortunately that only left me one option and I looked at Murdock.

"What about you? Where do you sleep?"

"Technically, A Barracks."

I was far too experienced a soldier to fall for that and I stared hard at him. "What about _non_-technically?"

He shrugged. "Assumin' we don't have any new arrivals, here. The men don't want an officer sharin' their billet. They gotta have somewhere to gripe an' blame us for everythin' that goes wrong."

That was true enough. I glanced around the small room. It would be a tight squeeze, but I figured it was just about big enough.

"Anyone using this room besides you?"

Murdock shook his head. "Nah. They used to lock people up here, 'til one guy busted his way out. They beat nine kindsa hell outta him, but never bothered to fix the door. It sorta closes, but don't expect to lock it."

"Right." I looked around, examining the room more closely. It wasn't the Ritz, but it'd do for what I needed. "I got some bad news for you, Murdock."

"Yeah?" He didn't look too concerned. I guess he thought whatever I was about to say couldn't make the situation any worse than it was already. "What's that?"

"You just got yourself some roomies. I'm moving all the officers in here. You, me, Davis, Sanders and this Angel guy, wherever he is."

"Me an' _Sanders_?" Murdock shot to his feet. From his expression, you'd think I wanted him to jerk me off. "I ain't sharin' with that scum!"

I rose to mine, staring him down. "You'll share with whoever I tell you to share with, Captain. If it's any consolation, I'm not exactly happy about bunking down with him either."

It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, but after a few seconds he seemed to decide it wasn't worth arguing with me and looked away.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, Colonel. I understand. But I wouldn't bring Angel in here. It's bad enough you're bringin' _one_ collaborator into this billet, but two? An' that's another thing; Sanders hates you an' technically he outranks you. If he don't wanna come in here, what're you gonna do? Punch him again an' drag him inside by his ankles?"

The idea did hold a certain appeal, I had to admit. Maybe BA could...no. No, better resist temptation, at least for the minute.

"Alright. But I can get Davis in here."

"Uh huh." Murdock still looked skeptical. "You order him in here, an' Sanders orders him to stay where he is. Who d'you think he's gonna obey? You, or the higher ranking officer who don't have a problem sendin' him along to Charlie if he don't toe the line?"

I sat down again, deep in thought. Sanders was clearly the biggest problem, bigger even than the VC. If I couldn't find a way of dealing with him, things would just keep going from bad to worse here.

I glanced up at Murdock. "When you were with Charlie, did you see another guy in there? Big, black, mohawk?"

Murdock raised his eyebrows, then took a deep breath.

"You dead, sucker! I see you again, I'm gonna kill you!"

It was such a good imitation of BA's voice that I had to smile. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Well, I didn't see him, Colonel, but I sure heard him. Ain't nothin' wrong with his lungs, whatever else Charlie's been doin' to him. He don't strike me as the kinda guy who breaks easy."

_That_ was certainly true. The entire US Army hadn't been able to break BA, so I doubted a couple of Viet Cong would manage it.

The problem was that I didn't have time for them to try. Things were quiet at the minute, but I didn't think Sanders was going to just roll over and give in, not after I'd humiliated him so publicly...twice. I still didn't know whether I could count on Murdock, which only left me BA.

I glanced through the open door at the camp commander's HQ and felt my hand curl slowly into a fist.

The hell with Charlie and Sanders; if BA wasn't out by tomorrow, I'd go in there and get him myself.


	3. Death

**Vera:** Thanks! Also, sorry about the long wait for updates...I've only just got settled in and managed to get internet up and working

**putmoneyinthypurse: **Wow, that has to be one of the longest reviews I've ever got! :O Thanks so much and I'm glad you like it :D

**Capt. Cow:** Heh. Well, it's all part of being a writer ;) And thanks. Face...yes, he will be making his grand debut in about two chapters ;)

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The first thing I learned when I woke up the next morning was that Sanders was out for my blood.

The second was that Haines had died during the night.

"Died?" I repeated, a little groggily. It was early in the morning; so early, in fact, that the sun hadn't risen yet. I didn't know how much (or how little) sleep I'd managed to get, but I knew it hadn't been enough.

"Yeah." There was something in Young's expression – half regretful, half defiant – that made me wonder just how natural a death it had been, but I knew better than to pry. There was nothing any of us could have done; Haines had been at death's door. If someone had decided to make it a little easier on the kid by opening it for him, then that was between them and their conscience.

I wasn't entirely sure what to say to this. I couldn't really say I was sorry, since I hadn't known Haines and so I said the next best thing.

"Does Sanders know?" I managed to inject a note of _that's all we need_ into my voice and it did the trick; Young relaxed a little, although I didn't miss his curled lip.

"Yeah, he knows. He and that damn major just picked him up and tossed him outside like so much trash. Said we couldn't have a dead body stinking up the place. And that it'd only serve as a breeding ground for germs and bacteria." The mocking, sing-song quality he put in that last sentence told me it was word-for-word what Sanders had said.

I still didn't know what Young expected me to say or do about it and I glanced over to where Murdock was slumbering peacefully (or pretending to at any rate. At the time I didn't believe anyone could sleep with their cheek scrunched up against the wall and their butt in the air, but then, at the time I didn't know Murdock all that well). Whichever it was, it didn't look like I could count on him for backup anytime soon.

The trouble was that although Young was right, so was Sanders. I wouldn't have allowed a dead body to remain indoors for one second longer than I had to either. Even if it wasn't a magnet for flies and bacteria, in this heat the stink alone would be unbearable...and anyone who thinks that's a callous attitude toward a dead body has clearly never smelt one. The difference between me and Sanders was that I would at least have let Haines' friends move him with as much dignity as it was possible to get in a place like this. And if I'd been responsible for the death of the only medic who could have helped him, I'd have been tactful enough to keep a low profile as well.

"Alright. Dismissed." I really had no idea what else to say and I didn't want to lose authority in front of Young by appearing indecisive.

"Hannibal—"

"_Dismissed, _Private." I growled it and Young was smart enough to take the hint; he ducked outside and closed the door behind him. Well...slammed it, actually.

I looked at Murdock, who hadn't so much as twitched a muscle.

"You awake, Captain?" I found it hard to believe he wasn't; even if the recent conversation hadn't woken him, Young's door slamming would have.

"'Pends wha' you want." Murdock's voice was slurred a little too perfectly. "If it involves movin', then I ain't gon' be 'wake fur 'nother three hours."

I stood over him, arms folded as I looked down. He must have sensed I was there, but he never gave any indication. If I hadn't known he was faking it, I'd have believed the deception.

"In that case, Murdock, you better brush up on your sleepwalking skills. We're going outside to take a look around."

Murdock yawned, chewed air for a few seconds and then curled up into a ball, all without opening his eyes. "Thought you did that yesterday."

"Yeah, I did. I was marched through by Allen the first time, then after that I got about ten feet when Sanders swooped down on me. I'm hoping third time's the charm."

He half opened one eye. "Aw, Colonel, do I really gotta come with ya?"

"Yeah." Any other time I would have let him sleep – no point both of us being tired – but this was different. I wanted him with me, wanted to show Sanders I had my own allies in this camp. "Let's go, Captain."

Murdock groaned, yawned again and stretched cat-fashion, then rolled off his cot onto the hard ground and dragged himself to his feet, scratching the base of his neck, and followed me outside.

It was early in the morning, so early that I could see a faint pink hue in the sky where the sun was starting to rise. The entrance and surrounding fence was illuminated; the camp itself was not, and all I could make out inside were silhouettes. Most of the men were still asleep, the only exceptions being a cluster of shadows I took to be Haines' buddies and, surprise surprise, Sanders and a tired-looking Davis off to one side, close enough to one of the lights on the fence for me to see them clearly. Unlike his major, Sanders looked as fresh as ever, standing there with arms folded in a way that suggested he was waiting for something, or someone.

"Does that guy ever sleep?" I demanded.

Murdock shrugged. "I never seen him, Colonel. I think he's scared to drop off all the time there's people in this camp who hate him."

If that were true, I thought that Sanders must be possessed of phenomenal endurance. With Haines' death, the atmosphere around the men had thickened until you could taste the fury, most of it directed at Sanders himself. Forget falling asleep; I was amazed Sanders was complacent enough to even blink around them.

There were just as many Cong guards as ever (about twenty, to give you some idea) but they didn't seem interested in us. I got a feeling that would change the instant one of us tried to pull a cutie like going over or under the fence; the guns they were toting didn't look like toys. A couple were keeping an eye on what was happening, but I thought that was probably more for their own amusement than anything else. Watching prisoners argue and fight amongst themselves was ten times more entertaining than watching them sit or stand around listlessly, and all the time we were trying to kill each other, it meant there was far less chance of us trying to kill _them, _or getting any cute ideas about an escape.

One of the shadows around Haines peeled off from the group and strode towards Sanders.

"That there's Ferguson," Murdock informed me, apparently unaware that I'd been marched around and had at least some of the men introduced to me...although that said, I wasn't familiar enough to identify each and every one of them on shape alone. I had to admit Murdock was already turning out to be extremely useful. I hadn't seen enough of him yet to be able to tell whether or not he was a good officer, but as a walking copy of _POW Who's Who_, he was without par.

We started to walk towards them – rather quickly; I wasn't too keen on the idea of letting this one blow up – but Ferguson strode into the light and started speaking to Sanders in a low voice before we were even halfway there. I didn't hear what he was saying, but I was willing to bet a year's salary that it wasn't something you'd put in a letter home to your mother.

As we drew nearer, Ferguson saw us. I know he saw us, because he froze for just a moment before shoving Sanders hard enough to send him sprawling and stalking away from him and in our general direction, eyes firmly on the ground. I sidestepped in front of him and discovered very quickly that there was a slight flaw in this plan: namely my assumption that he was going to look up and see me at some point during his march. Instead he cannoned into me and I was only just quick enough to catch hold of him and stop us both tumbling to the ground.

"What's your hurry, soldier?"

Ferguson glared at me with such ferocity I was a little taken aback. He was good friends with Gabney, and both of them were quiet, unassuming by nature; he was the last person I'd have picked to start a revolution.

"Crazy, arrogant, clueless, sick, twisted _bastard_!"

"Well, I'd hardly call myself clueless," I remarked, and that seemed to bring him to his senses a little; he looked away, although I could feel the resentment boiling off him in waves.

"Sorry, sir. Not you; _him_." It really was amazing how much emotion could be compressed into a single word.

"Sanders." It wasn't a question – who else could Ferguson have meant; Murdock? – but I hoped it would get his train of thought moving again.

"He wants to organise an inquest and court-martial. Here! Can you believe it?"

"He _what_?" Murdock and I said in one voice, then I continued. "What for?"

"Haines' murder."

I let my head drop onto my hand, a groan tearing its way out. That was all we needed.

Murdock's expression was guarded again as he looked at me; he wanted to see how I was going to play it. As far as he was concerned, I was still on probation as Potential CO. I was certain I ranked above Sanders, but I was just as certain that Murdock probably viewed the lowliest grunt in the camp as being above Sanders.

"Who killed him?"

Ferguson licked his lips and glanced quickly over his shoulder, but it was still too dark to make out who he was looking at.

"I don't know."

I sighed. "Right. A man kills another man in your barracks while you're lying there and you have no idea who it was."

"No sir, I don't."

I sighed again. "Alright, let's try it another way. Who is Sanders blaming for it?"

For a moment I thought Ferguson wasn't going to answer me, then he said, "Private Young, sir."

Which meant Young was probably innocent, I thought, else Ferguson wouldn't have been so quick to toss his name out.

I didn't think there was much chance of my solving this mystery – not least because I didn't much want to, if I'm honest – but I had to at least go through the motions.

I caught Murdock's eye and the captain seemed to understand; he took half a step forward and spoke to Ferguson.

"Let's you an' me have a little talk about this, okay?"

It wasn't okay, at least not if Ferguson's expression was anything to go by, but he didn't seem inclined to disobey Murdock and the two of them drew off a little way.

One crisis dealt with. At least now I was free to go and have a look at Haines for myself.

The men drew back a little as I approached. I was an officer. I wasn't Sanders. I didn't support Sanders. This meant I would be tolerated. It did not mean that I was welcome.

Well, that was fine. I wasn't planning to intrude, just to get some answers and I indicated Haines' body, currently lying face down on the ground.

"May I?"

It was nothing more than a formality. I was going to examine him and we all knew it, but at least I respected him – and them – enough not to just barrel right on in and paw at him.

Gently, with as much dignity as I could manage, I turned Haines over and saw straightaway that Sanders had been right and someone had killed the kid. Even in the dim light, I could see the darker skin and slight bulges that pointed to suffocation.

I rolled him back onto his face as delicately as before, then straightened up and looked at the men.

"Was anyone with him when he died?"

Silence. Only Young was bold enough to look me in the eyes, although he'd have done that regardless of whether he'd been responsible for this or not.

"Alright, I'll put it another way," I said calmly. "I know no one here is a medic, but he was in your building. Do you think he suffered?"

Silence, then Tennon spoke up. "I...don't think so, no."

"He went in his sleep." Young's voice was cold and his face set. He looked – and sounded – like someone reciting a well-rehearsed story, which was more or less the case.

"In his sleep?" I repeated.

"Never stirred. Never woke up. One minute he was there and the next..." Young shrugged.

I let it go at that. I'd played the game enough times to know when to quit, and there was no way I'd ever find out which one of them had actually killed Haines. It had been a mercy killing; the kid was never going to make it and I wasn't interested in pointing fingers.

"Alright." I stepped away. I could have said a few words, I guess, could have at least saluted, but what would have been the point? I hadn't known the kid, and any gestures from me would have been false, even pompous. Besides, after the round of introductions yesterday, I didn't think I had any more salutes left in me. The only thing I could do was to withdraw and let his friends pay their respects as best they could in this place.

I did respect the corpse enough not to turn my back on it until I'd got a few paces away, however, and then the sight of BA – I'd know that silhouette anywhere – drove all thoughts of Haines and Sanders out of my head, at least for the minute.

Murdock had taken Ferguson a little way off and was still talking to him in a quiet voice. That was good. I really wasn't looking forward to the moment when I'd have to introduce BA to Murdock (or vice versa). Although I didn't think the captain would have a problem with BA, I was less sure about BA's ability to coexist peacefully with Murdock...or any officer that wasn't me, for that matter, and even that last one was pushing it.

BA himself was standing several yards away, staring at Haines' body. Like me, though, he was smart enough not to muscle in where he wasn't wanted...at least on this occasion. He didn't seem to be too badly hurt, although there was something different about him, something I couldn't quite place.

I sidled closer to him. "Sergeant. You alright?"

It was a stupid question, I know, but I couldn't think of anything else to ask.

He glared at me. "They took my gold!"

Well, if that was all he was worried about, then I could relax.

"You shouldn't have been wearing it." I made my voice harsher than it needed to be. BA...well, he got a lot _more_ gold after 'Nam, but even then he had a few rings and a couple chains. He and I had exchanged several words on that topic, and none of them had been complimentary. The chains I could turn a blind eye to, since he always kept them tucked securely inside his clothes, but the rings...forget Charlie, I was amazed none of our officers had confiscated them. Granted they were as good as a knuckleduster, and having that many diamonds scraping your jaw could really cause some serious abrasions, but still...according to the top brass, they were non-regulation.

And me? Well, in this situation, I couldn't give a damn about looking pretty, but the metal on BA's hands reflected light in the evening and at night, and that made him a far easier target.

Then again, it's damn hard to get rings off a man with clenched fists, and even harder to unclench them. And if it came to a toss-up between handing over his gold and suffering military discipline, I knew him well enough to know he'd pick the slammer every time. He'd never have got away with it in peacetime, but rules tend to relax a little in war. Any officer worth his salt would have had more important things on his mind, like keeping his men alive, and a bad officer wouldn't have got anywhere with him anyway.

"Ain't _nobody_ takes _my _gold, Hannibal!"

"Well, someone did." I had to admit I was impressed. "How'd they do it?"

He clenched a fist the size of a small saucepan. "Sucker hit me on the back of the head. Knocked me out cold."

That also would have taken a lot of doing. BA has a head like a rock. A two-by-four might do it, but only if you caught him off guard and hit him from behind...and only if you made sure he didn't get up again.

"Was that before or after you threw a chicken bone at Sanders?" I was still a little surprised that that was all BA had thrown.

He threw me a furious look. "That what he told you? Man, that ain't what happened!"

I gave up. This was the third or fourth retelling of the chicken incident I'd had since I arrived yesterday, and I was sick of the whole thing, not mention I had more important things to worry about. I also knew BA well enough to know that if Sanders hadn't sent him to Charlie for that, he'd have sent him for something else five minutes later.

"Alright. Just try and keep a lid on it, okay? I need you out here."

BA scowled at me and didn't answer, although that didn't surprise me much. I think that guy was born scowling; he's got the face for it. I'd tried one or two of his expressions out in the mirror one time, just for fun, and I was still laughing at myself ten minutes later.

Murdock finished his little talk with Ferguson and came over to join us. For the first time since I'd met him (all of twelve hours ago) he looked worried.

"Something wrong?"

"I dunno, Colonel. He seemed okay – or as okay as he could be, I guess – but..." Murdock twisted his head around to stare at Ferguson, who had now rejoined the others. "I dunno. Somethin' about him." He glanced at BA. "Hey big guy. How's it goin'?"

"Murdock." It wasn't much of a response by normal standards, but on the BA scale of greeting, it was a handshake and a hearty slap on the back.

This was a little too much of a coincidence for me and I looked from one to the other.

"What, you two know each other?"

"Sure do," Murdock informed me. "You were out for quite a while, Hannibal."

That was something that had never occurred to me; that BA and Murdock would have already met while I'd been out cold. I didn't know what had happened between them, but if it meant they could get along together...well, I've never been one to turn down a miracle when it's offered. At least now I had two firm allies in this camp, and if I got a chance to talk to Davis away from Sanders, I planned to make it three.

The chance I wanted didn't arrive until early afternoon. Sanders had announced that in light of recent events, he was prepared to postpone the proceedings involved in finding the perpetrator of this disgusting crime until tomorrow. Those were pretty much his exact words. (Murdock, who seemed to be possessed of a phenomenal memory, entertained both me and BA in the 'officers' billet that night with several recitations, all in different accents. I liked the Jamaican one best).

Anyway, early in the afternoon, Davis decided he was going to take a little stroll. I had a good idea where he was going and why – there was a corner that we used for our business which was mostly unobserved by the guards – and I took my chance.

"Major." I fell into step beside him, Murdock flanking him on the other side. "Let's talk."

Whatever his other faults, Davis wasn't stupid. I think he had a damn good idea what we wanted to talk to him about; he turned to bolt and bumped into BA, who gripped him by the front of his shirt and lifted him a full six inches off the ground.

"You hard a hearin', sucker?"

"Thanks BA. Oh, I wouldn't struggle," I added pleasantly to Davis. "It only makes him mad."

"What do you want?" I had to hand it to the guy; there aren't many people who can keep their voice that calm half an inch away from BA's nose.

"Just a little chat, Major. Put him down, BA."

BA obeyed, dropping Davis to the ground and wiping his hand on his pants. I took a step forward, standing over the major and smiling down at him, Murdock just behind me.

"Now, you're going to tell us all about Sanders, Davis. That should be easy, since you and he spend so much time together."

Davis got to his feet, swallowing hard. I think he thought I had plans to beat the answer out of him. This is the down side of having a guy like BA on your team; nobody believes you when you say you're willing to talk peacefully.

"Uh...I don't think I can be a lot of help, sir—"

I put a friendly arm around his shoulders and squeezed. "Oh, now why don't you let me be the judge of that? C'mon. Let's sit down."

I guided him over to the fence (away from that particular corner) and we sat down underneath the rambutan, or at least in the shade it offered from outside the camp.

"What do you want to know?"

Murdock patted him on the shoulder. "Aw, you're a smart guy, Davis. You figure it out."

Davis looked at me. I kept my face perfectly impassive and at last he ventured, "Sanders?"

"Bingo." I didn't smile.

"I don't know a lot about him, sir."

Murdock patted him again. "That's alright, buddy. We don't wanna know a _lot_, just a little'll do us."

Davis' eyes flicked from Murdock to me and back to Murdock again. I knew what he was thinking: Good Cop, Bad Cop. He wasn't too far off the mark either, except in this case it was Good Cop, Severely-Nicotine-Deprived Cop, which is much worse. I'd had to forgo my evening cigar yesterday and my morning cigar today, and so I was currently fighting an urge to bite the whole world. Worse, I'd rationed myself to one cigar every two days, so I wasn't going to get any relief until tomorrow.

"I'll make it simple for you, Major," I added. "If you tell me the truth, whatever it is, I can protect you from scum like Sanders. If you lie to me, he won't even be in it by the time I get through with you."

Anyone who knows me also knows that although I don't give a rat's ass about whether or not they lie to other people, I have a very clear, easy to remember rule about lying to me. It goes something like this: do it and I'll break both your kneecaps.

What can I say? My father always taught me that liar meant the same thing as coward, and although I can admit that there are occasions when people have a valid reason to lie, these tend to be the exception and not the rule.

Davis shook his head very slowly. "It wasn't supposed to be this way."

"Tell me."

He swallowed and I saw it wasn't just fear making him act this way, but guilt. That was alright, though. It's easier to get a guilty person on your side; they want nothing more than a chance to make amends.

"I was the senior officer until Sanders turned up. I was glad he did; I was screwing it up right, left and centre." No self-pity or bitterness; just a simple fact. "He seemed authoritative, experienced, just what this place needed."

I started to ask about all the men he'd supposedly turned over to Charlie, but Murdock cleared his throat and, when I looked over at him, shook his head.

"The first time...I think it was an accident. He complained about someone who refused to salute him and Charlie heard and acted."

"Now you an' I both know that ain't true." Murdock's voice was calm, almost soothing.

"You weren't there, Captain."

"Didn't have to be. Why would the VC care whether a US officer's saluted by his own men? Heck, the more infightin' an' disorganisation there is amongst us, the better they like it. An' you been playin' your part in both those things, aintcha?"

"I never sent anyone to Charlie!" He was frantic now. Like I said, he wasn't stupid, and he knew that anyone who supported Sanders was going to be pretty high on my hit list. If I couldn't take down Sanders, it made sound military sense to target his supporters.

I let him calm down a little before saying, "No, but you never tried to stop Sanders, did you?"

Davis looked away. "I couldn't. He'd've just sent me in with them."

"Never stopped me, pal." There was an edge to Murdock's voice now.

"I'm not asking you to reenact the Charge of the Light Brigade, Major. I'm ordering you to leave Sanders' camp and come into mine."

Davis drew in a long breath, then shook his head. "I can't. You don't know what...I can't. I just can't."

I caught hold of his elbow as he started to rise. "Murdock? Did you, by any chance, hear what I just said to Major Davis?"

Murdock instantly composed his expression into one of polite attention. It was so well done that I had to bite back an urge to grin.

"Yes sir, I did."

"And did I, at any time, make it sound like a suggestion or request?" I asked him as I sat Davis down again.

Murdock pretended to consider, then said, "No, Colonel, I can't say you did. In fact, I thought it sounded a lot like an order."

"Good. I'm glad you said that." I looked at Davis and raised my eyebrows. "Well, Major? Way I see it, you don't have much of a choice."

Davis swallowed again. "Sir, I—"

He broke off, not because of any sudden attack of conscience, but because BA had just loomed over him and blocked out not just the sun, but most of the sky too.

"He _said_ you ain't got no choice, sucker!"

I was glad to see that Davis, for all his beaten demeanor, wasn't stupid enough to try and pull rank on BA; instead he looked at me for help.

I wasn't stupid enough to try it either. There's nobody on this planet who can make BA obey an order if he decides he doesn't want to.

"Welcome to my camp, Major Davis." I smiled at him and Mount Baracus withdrew a little, rumbling ominously. "In case you were unaware, let me fill you in; things are about to change around here."

You know, I'm not usually wrong. In this case, however, I had no idea how right I was about to be; things were about to change, faster than I'd expected.

In fact, they changed completely the very next day.

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**Okay, the story's on the move again (counting down the chapters until I can bring Face in and **_**really**_** set off some fireworks ;)) Anyway, hope you like it and if you read, please review!**


	4. Change of Command

**ACK! Sorry again for the long wait (this time I do have a little more of an excuse: my internet went down and I was pretty ill through much of January. Still, all better now and ready to get back to fanfic ;))**

**Heya:** Thanks :) And...well, okay, it's not exactly _soon_, but it is an update ;)

**Carol: **Well...hopefully this will answer your question ;)

**putmoneyinthypurse: **Heh, thanks. Yeah, Murdock's gotta be the most fun to write ;)

**dawn2dusk: **Thanks, and yep, one update, as per your request XD

**TheLaura: **Thanks :)

**Jumping:** Okay, one update. Enjoy :)

* * *

That night, I managed to get a good night's sleep for the first time since arriving, and this coupled with the fact that today was a cigar day meant I was almost cheerful when I woke up. I was also ravenously hungry; the only food we'd got yesterday had been a couple pieces of bread and a tablespoon of rice.

Well, they say that nicotine suppresses your appetite, and now was as good a time as any to test this. I put the cigar into my mouth, lit up and inhaled, feeling the smoke curl around inside the roof of my mouth. Nothing on this earth had ever tasted so wonderful.

On the cot opposite me, Murdock wrinkled his nose, sneezed, then opened his eyes enough to stare at me.

"Problem, Captain?" I inquired.

He shrugged and sat up slowly, wincing as he did so. "They're your lungs, sir."

I was glad he felt that way. I knew BA hated smoking, but he and I had reached an understanding: I'd stop trying to get him to give up his gold, and he'd stop griping about my cigars.

Then again, since Charlie and his buddies already _had_ BA's gold, maybe he'd consider that little agreement null and void, and cigar smoke never smells as good when it's someone else's. Usually I open the window when I smoke, but this was different. Sanders was likely to swoop down on me like a vulture if he saw me smoking and I wanted to enjoy this cigar in peace.

"You want me to keep an eye out?" Murdock offered.

I nodded. I was starting to wonder if he had psychic abilities; he always seemed to be on my exact wavelength.

Murdock – who I thought was glad of an excuse to get away from the smell of cigar smoke – rolled onto his feet in much the same way as he had yesterday, one hand holding his baseball cap on his head. Now I thought about it, I realised I'd never seen him without it.

"Murdock, what's with the baseball cap?"

He squirmed a little, going red in the face. "Well, it's...uh...I'm gettin' a little thin on top. I think my hairline took one look around when we got to Vietnam an' split."

I shrugged. "So?"

"Aw, Colonel, I'm twenty five! Maybe I ain't too young ta die, but I am _definitely_ too young ta go bald!"

I grinned. I'd said much the same thing about going grey, although that had been when I was seventeen.

"What does Sanders say about that?"

Murdock took a deep breath, worked his jaw a couple times, then said in a perfect imitation of Sanders' voice, "You know it isn't regulation, Captain, but in light of the current situation, I will let you hold onto it. If you wear it around the men, however, you and I are going to fall out."

This time I laughed. Murdock really did have a talent for mimicry. "I notice that didn't stop you."

"I ain't afraida Sanders, Colonel." It was said simply, with no trace of bravado.

"No?" I raised my eyebrows. "So what are you afraid of, Murdock?"

He eyed me for a moment, half teasing, half serious. "Truth?"

"Sure."

"Insanity."

I blinked. That wasn't what I'd been expecting.

"You're afraid of...losing your mind?"

"I had a buddy in high school. We went through a lot together, enlisted together, you know? He had a nervous breakdown. A bad one. He spent six months in the psych ward of the VA before committing suicide. I visited him several times, but...he usually had no idea who I was. Sometimes he thought I was jus' another doctor, sometimes he thought I was an enemy, someone he'd been ordered to destroy. An' you know, ever since then, Hannibal, I always been scareda goin' the same way."

I raised my eyebrows, leaning back against the wall. "Well...if it's any consolation, Murdock, you're probably the last person I'd expect to go insane."

He grinned back at me, but the grin never reached his eyes. "Well, thanks. But I always wondered...did he know he was nuts? Were there times when he knew what was happenin'?"

That was something I'd often wondered myself, although I didn't have much time to ponder it as that was when we were interrupted. With extreme prejudice.

"MURDOCK!" Tennon slammed open the door and burst in, tripped over his own feet and fell headlong into the opposite wall with a crash that shook the whole billet.

"Oh please, come on in," I invited with a little more sarcasm than I guess I needed. I couldn't help it; one of my quirks is that I really, seriously hate people who come into my room/office/billet/whatever without knocking.

Yeah, I know that's petty, especially in a POW camp. And I know that we can't have the world arrange itself the way we want all the time, but it still bugged the hell out of me!

Murdock shot a glare at me and helped Tennon to his feet. "What's goin' on?"

Tennon didn't mince his words. "It's Sanders, Captain. He's dead."

I have to say, I wasn't expecting that, and judging from Murdock's astonished expression, neither was he.

"_What_?"

"Strangled, sir." I let the _sir_ go this time; now was not the moment to insist on informality. "Him and Major Davis."

"Davis?" Murdock's voice went from incredulity to danger in about half a nanosecond flat. "Who'd want to kill Davis?"

"I don't know," I told him in an undertone, "but I intend to find out." Glancing at Tennon, I added, "I want to see everyone who can walk in A Barracks by the time I get there, and you better believe I'm gonna move fast."

Tennon didn't move. "I'm not—"

"If Sanders is dead, soldier, that means _I'm_ senior officer in this camp and I just gave you an order. Now _move it_!"

Still he hesitated, and I could see his eyes flick to Murdock, looking for confirmation.

"You heard the colonel."

Tennon nodded (for a nasty moment I thought he was going to salute) then turned and strode out.

"So what now, O Fearless Leader?" Murdock wanted to know. I don't _think_ he was being sarcastic.

"What do you mean,_ what now_? I want to find out who did this, Murdock."

"Whoever it was ain't gonna confess. I doubt even his friends know it was him. Y'know, you _punch_ a superior officer in the Army, Hannibal, an' the whole place goes mad."

I had noticed this myself at various points during my career.

"Now I got no idea what they'd do ta someone who murdered one, but I sure don't think the guys out there are gonna be willin' to find out the hard way. Face it, Colonel, you ain't never gonna find who did it."

As the morning wore on, I was forced to admit that maybe he was right. The stories all of us – even Murdock – got from the men had been planned out and rehearsed, right down to the last word. The message was unmistakable: they'd done it, they wanted me to _know_ they'd done it in case I got any cute ideas about following in Sanders' footsteps, but there was no way they were going to tell me who had actually been the culprit.

But why Davis? That was what was worrying me. Maybe he'd tried to defend Sanders and things had gotten out of hand. That seemed the most likely explanation, but I couldn't quite make it fit. There were plenty of ways to restrain a man without killing him, and Davis wouldn't have been much of a threat anyway, not with two broken fingers. Anyone strong enough to take out Sanders with their bare hands (and strangling someone to death isn't as easy as it sounds) would have been strong enough to restrain Davis without hurting him.

Sanders and Davis had both been tossed outside; Davis with a little more respect and decorum than Sanders. I'd seen men handle bags of trash with more care.

I was with Murdock when that happened. He didn't look too happy about what was going on, but he wasn't particularly upset either. Something told me that Murdock could be a very nasty enemy, in much the same way I could. He didn't seem to care about regs, or to put it more accurately, he didn't follow them blindly all the time they interfered with his looking out for whoever he called a friend, and it was with this in mind that I took him to one side for a quiet chat.

"Do you know who killed Sanders?"

Murdock shrugged. "No idea, Colonel. Sorry."

It was a little too pat and I narrowed my eyes. "Was it you?"

I don't know why I said it so bluntly (or why I expected him to hold his hand up to it if it was) but then...I've never been one for dancing around a subject. Maybe I thought if he was guilty, I could surprise something from him.

"_What_? No, it was not!"

Even Murdock couldn't fake anger as well as that and I held up my hands. "Okay. Sorry."

That wasn't going to wash. I could see that before Murdock turned his anger on me.

"If we're pointin' fingers, Colonel, how'm I s'posed to know it wasn't _you_? You had a lot to gain from his dyin'; now you're the big guy in the camp!"

Now it was my turn to get angry and I grabbed him, popularity be damned. "Do you _seriously_ believe that I would commit murder just to be in charge of this hell?"

Murdock seized my wrists so tightly I felt the bones grind together. "No, I don't. But it ain't nice to be accused, is it?"

"No." I released him and stepped back, calmer now. "No, it's not. I'm sorry."

"Right." Murdock smoothed his t-shirt and took half a step away. I had a nasty feeling that any respect I'd managed to earn from him had just fizzled out into nothing.

"So...who do you think?"

Murdock raised his eyebrows. "Why don't you tell me, Colonel? You're _good_ at jumpin' ta conclusions."

I stared hard at him. "I said I was sorry, Murdock. If you're waiting for me to fall on my knees and beg your forgiveness, you're going to be waiting a hell of a long time."

There was a silence, but it was comfortable, not awkward.

"Think it was Young?" I asked at the end of it.

"Young?" Murdock looked surprised, then shook his head. "Naw. Young's a talker. He vents all his anger by yellin' at someone or pickin' a fight, but he ain't capable of cold-blooded murder. He jus' likes to think he is."

I sighed. That was pretty much my take on things as well, which put us right back to square one.

"So someone murdered Sanders." I don't know why I kept saying it out loud; maybe I thought that it would help me figure a solution, or even turn it into a bad dream. I didn't much relish the thought of being in the same camp as someone who had killed my predecessor just because they hadn't liked the way he was doing things.

"I ain't gonna shed a single tear for _that_ guy," Murdock said flatly, "but I want to know why they had to go an' kill Davis."

He wasn't the only one. I'd liked Major Davis; he'd been good, if a little weak.

"Is there something about Davis I don't know? Any reason why someone would want him dead?"

Murdock shrugged. "If there is, I don't know what. Things weren't great before Sanders came along, but they got a whole lot worse after."

I glanced at the crust of dried blood along one cheek and added, "Especially for you, right?"

"Me?" Murdock shrugged again. "Charlie keeps me alive. I wound up bein' sent up to him so much by Sanders that the camp commander is now convinced I know everythin' there is to know about the whole US Army."

I stared at him, feeling a slight chill run through my body. "So what's going to happen to you now that Sanders is gone?"

Another shrug, which didn't do much for my peace of mind. Quite apart from liking Murdock on a personal level, I knew enough psychology to know that if he was killed shortly after I took command, it would be my fault. How he died would make no difference as far as the men were concerned; it would still be my fault.

"I dunno, Colonel. I guess Angel's gonna pick up where Sanders left off."

For a minute I couldn't believe he was serious, then I looked into his eyes – _really_ looked into them – and saw that he was.

"Over my dead body, Murdock!" I hadn't been able to pull rank on Sanders to get him to stop his nasty little tricks, but some slimy Navy lieutenant was a different matter.

Murdock raised his eyebrows. "Well, sure, if that's what you want. I'd rather you didn't up an' die on us all _jus'_ yet, though, Hannibal, but if you're gonna take on the likes a Angel..." He shook his head. "Guy's got some powerful friends."

I shrugged. "So do I."

One corner of Murdock's mouth quirked as he looked at me. "Yeah. But yours ain't gonna do ya much good here, Colonel."

He was right about that. I had no idea if they even knew I was here, that I was still alive...and if they _did_, I didn't think they'd be able to do anything about it.

"Alright." I started to ask why anyone would have killed Sanders – not because I didn't know but because I wanted to get the conversation back on track – then something else occurred to me and I frowned. "So...why kill Sanders now? Why didn't they do it as soon as he started being such a jerk?"

Murdock sat down next to us and frowned for a few minutes. "I dunno. Maybe because...they were waitin' for someone? I doubt there're gonna be many people comin' in ranked higher'n you, Hannibal. That means you're gonna stay in command here for a while."

I wasn't sure I liked that idea, but I was smart enough to keep that little gem to myself. I'd heard several men whine under my command – sometimes I thought the other officers sent all their whiners to me to sort them out – and whenever they moaned that they didn't like something, my answer was always the same ("I'll send you a postcard when I start to care.") Whether I liked it or not, Murdock was right; this POW camp with every one of the men and their intrigues now fell squarely under my command.

I looked at Murdock then, looked him straight in the eyes.

"I want you on my team, Murdock."

His face went impassive as he answered blandly, "Sir?" Army manners seemed to be something he took refuge in whenever he was unsure of something...or in my case, someone.

"You heard me, Captain, and don't sit there looking all meek and mild at me either!"

Murdock turned his head away, staring straight ahead. "I'm sorry, sir. Would you prefer me to be all meek an' mild atcha standin' up?"

"Murdock..."

He looked back at me then, all banter – however slight – gone.

"With respect, sir, I still don't know you. I guess you ain't a traitor or a coward like Sanders, but that don't necessarily mean yours is the flagpole I wanna hoist _my_ banner on."

BA stirred next to me. He's the kinda guy who almost never offers his loyalty, but when he _does_, you got a fanatic on your hands and he'll support you and hurtle into a fight on your behalf...whether you want him to or not.

This time, I was able to glare him into silence, and I think I only managed that because he'd been impressed by Murdock's honesty. That eased my blood pressure a notch or two; at least it didn't look like those two were going to kill each other any time soon.

"I want what's best for the men," I told him.

He still didn't smile. "Yeah. Y'know, it's kinda strange, but that's what Sanders said he wanted as well. Don't get me wrong now; I ain't gonna stir things up or make trouble for you – not unless you do go down Sanders' or Angel's route – but I dunno if I'm comfortable joinin' your _team_, as you put it, until I know you a lot better. 'Cause if things go wrong between us, I ain't exactly in a position to hand in my resignation an' walk away."

I didn't smile either. I'd known men who had been court-martialed for speaking to a senior officer like that (okay, so it had been a particularly _rabid_ senior officer, but still...) and I respected Murdock for having the guts to be brutally honest with an officer who not only outranked him, but who – like he said – he didn't really know all that well either.

"Alright, let's do this another way. I want your word that you're not going to split off and lead your own little faction. This camp doesn't need to be divided again."

Murdock stared at me in silence for a few moments, then shook his head very slowly.

"I can't make you that promise either, Colonel. If you turn out like Sanders – mind, I ain't sayin' you _will_, just if you _do_ – I ain't gonna swallow that. I didn't swallow it under Sanders' command an' I don't see why I should hafta swallow it under yours either."

I returned the stare. "If I ever turn out like Sanders, Murdock, then all I can hope is that some kind person takes pity on me and puts me out of my misery quickly."

"I'll do it." BA, of course. I had no doubt he would, if it came to it. We had a mostly friendly relationship then (I wouldn't throw my weight around and he wouldn't turn me into fish paste) and I was about the only person in the entire US Army he'd consider obeying, but I didn't think he'd ever forget that I was – bad guy music, please – an _Officer_. Given the guy's hatred of authority and following orders, I've often wondered what in the world possessed him to enlist in the first place.

I still had plans to track down Angel and tell him a few home truths, though, despite what Murdock had said about him.

As it turned out, though, I didn't have to; Angel came to me late that afternoon, when I was alone. So soon after I was alone, in fact, that I thought he'd been waiting for it.

"So you're Colonel Smith."

He had the most compelling voice I'd ever come across; the kind of voice that I could hear doing voiceovers for the news or lecturing in college. In a strange way, it was a voice that you wanted to keep on listening to. But that air of brash confidence, the _you-will-listen-to-me_ factor...it all added up to a big I-Don't-Like-You as far as I was concerned.

"Lieutenant Angel." Of course, it didn't help that I was ravenous and he was holding a tin container full of hot rice, mushrooms and fish.

I'd spent a little time in a POW camp in Korea. There had been a traitor there as well – a guy by the name of Corporal Saward – but he'd managed to smuggle some of the food the camp commander gave him out to the rest of us. He later claimed that he'd only turned traitor so he could use his position to help the other men, and although I'm not sure how genuine that claim was, I couldn't deny the fact that he _had_ helped his fellow soldiers big time, me included. He'd also been smart enough to know that whatever his motives, kissing up to the commander wasn't likely to impress the rest of us.

Angel, on the other hand, seemed to think that his position as the commandant's pet gave him a certain status here as well. That I might actually _listen_ to him or even obey him, when in fact I'd been more inclined to salute and cooperate with Sanders. He'd never given any of Charlie's food to the men, but he'd never taken any himself either; he really had just used the camp guards as a kind of disciplinary tool.

I'd known other traitors besides Angel, but those had the common sense – or at least the survival instinct – to eat their ill-gotten gains away from the rest of us. Taking out some delicious smelling food and savoring it in front of a camp full of starving men...that bordered on sadistic. I was amazed his own men hadn't killed him yet.

"No doubt you've heard of this latest development," Angel drawled.

For a brief, crazy moment I wondered if it could possibly have been him who killed Sanders, then realised this was all but impossible. Oh, he could have – his improved diet meant that he was in a far better condition than the rest of us – but what was there to be gained? From what I could make out, Sanders and Davis hadn't been too inclined to stop him running to Charlie with his nasty little tales.

I didn't say any of this out loud, of course; all I said was, "Yes, I've heard of it."

"Good. Then I suppose all that remains is to congratulate you on your new position." He held out his hand. Even that was done with a pompous air.

It was crazy and a little stupid, I know, but I couldn't help myself; I took his hand and twisted it around in a goose lock, taking Angel down to his knees. I only held the lock for about five seconds before releasing him, but in that particular hold, five seconds can feel like an hour. Believe me; I know.

"You're an arrogant, traitorous, underhanded little creep," I informed him in a low voice, "and when we get out of here – assuming the men let you live that long – I will _personally_ see to it that you answer for everything you've done and every good man you've sent to the VC."

Turning my head, I raised my voice. "_MURDOCK_!"

I prayed our little scene earlier hadn't pissed him off so much he'd refuse to answer my summons. That would knock my authority squarely on its ass. I guess I could have called BA instead, but – although I wanted someone else with me for what I had in mind – I also wanted it to be someone I could control, or more accurately, who I could trust not to lose his cool. BA doesn't pick fights for the hell of it, but he's not exactly a strong advocate for diplomacy either. If my sergeant launched into this arrogant young officer, it would take me quite some time to find enough pieces of Lieutenant Angel to put him back together again.

Luckily, Murdock seemed to have forgotten all about our earlier argument, or at least decided not to bear a grudge; he broke off his conversation with Tennon and was at my side in an instant.

"Sir?"

"I believe you know Lieutenant Angel."

Angel looked a little less sure of himself, and I suddenly realised something: he was terrified of the pilot.

"Captain Murdock."

Murdock's response was a little less formal: "You lyin', traitorous bag a pus."

There weren't many other Navy men in that camp, but the few that were there didn't bother stepping forward to defend their officer. In fact, all of them looked to be in agreement with Murdock and I even saw one nodding in satisfaction.

"Captain!" I barked the word. "That is no way to talk to the man who's about to give you his lunch."

Murdock didn't take his eyes off Angel as he answered, "Even if that's true, Colonel, I ain't touchin' _nothin_' from this piece a filth."

"And, I may add, I have no intention of passing out my hard-earned food to—"

That was as far as Angel got before Murdock punched him. Hard; Angel literally flew backwards and landed sprawling on his back. I have to admit, I was impressed, although I did wish Murdock had thought to take the food off him first, as most of it was now scattered over the ground.

Murdock strode over to Angel's prone form, picked up the tin that the lieutenant had been eating out of and set about retrieving the food. Angel himself seemed to be wise enough not to protest again. If he had, I had no doubt that Murdock – or someone – would have kicked him into unconsciousness.

In spite of his words, I expected Murdock to take some of Angel's food for himself. It was one hell of a temptation; I could smell it from here and – although I wasn't about to demand the lion's share simply because I was now the senior officer, not when there were men who needed it far more – I couldn't help hoping that there would be some left for me.

To my surprise, though, Murdock stuck to his guns, passing the food out and favoring those who looked like they needed it most, but refusing to eat any himself. When he brought the tin back, there were a few scraps of fish left in it. I took one and passed another to BA, then offered the third to Murdock and got a pair of folded arms and a hard stare in return.

"I told you, Colonel, I ain't eatin' _nothin'_ that little creep brought in."

I didn't think I'd be able to reason with him and so I shared the final piece with BA instead.

"You know you can't keep beating up on the men in this camp, Captain."

Murdock spat on the ground bare inches away from Angel. "That ain't a man, Colonel. It's a goddamn parasite. I'd call it a tapeworm if it wasn't such an insult to all those decent, hard-workin' representatives of the genus _Cestoda_." He gave Angel a prod with his foot that was a little too hard to be a nudge and not quite hard enough to be a kick, then turned and strode off.

He paid for it, of course. Lieutenant Angel wasn't the kind of man to let someone get away with treating him that way. Later that evening, two of Charlie's boys burst in and seized Murdock, yelling at him in Vietnamese. I'd expected that (although I _hadn't_ expected Murdock to answer them in the same language and judging from their expressions, neither had they) but that didn't mean I had to like it.

And I couldn't do a damn thing except watch it happen. I don't think Murdock was stupid enough to blame me for that – in a POW camp, you do _not_ defy or pick fights with the guards, no matter what your rank is – but it didn't make me feel any better. All I could do was lie there and think about things, about whether or not Murdock would be coming out again and if he didn't, what the hell was I going to do?

Looking back on it, I'm almost glad I had that evening of quiet reflection, as depressing as my thoughts may have been. It was the only really calm evening I'd get, (although I didn't realise it at the time) since the next day marked the arrival of a wild, terrified young lieutenant who was going to turn my world upside-down.

* * *

**Okay, so next up, Face arrives ;) Hope you liked this (again, sorry for the wait!) and if you read, please review!**

**I'm not sure whether it would be better writing the rest of this solely from Hannibal's POV, or whether I should add a few chapters from Face's POV as well. I'm easy either way, so I'm gonna throw it open for a vote. What do you guys think; do you just want to stick with Hannibal, or do you want to get inside the Faceman's head as well from time to time?**


	5. No Torture, Huh?

**Okay, so the next one's up and done! Hope you like it!**

**dawn2dusk: **Thanks :D And...hmm. I'll see, but whichever POV I decide to go with, it won't happen for a few chapters ;-)

**Jen:** You're welcome XD And Face...well, read on ;-)

**Ela:** No worries :-) And Hannibal's POV will continue for a few chapters (I think it has to stay in first-person; changing to third would jar too much :-))

* * *

When he entered, he entered in style.

Well...maybe _style's_ the wrong word, but it was pretty damn dramatic all the same, compared to the usual method of Charlie just dumping them on the ground.

For some reason – I never found out what, maybe he'd been giving them a lot of attitude, or more likely they were pissed that he hadn't known enough to tell them – this time the VC decided that they were going to haul his ass into the camp and shove him into our billet.

It was early evening and I was smoking a cigar at the time. It wasn't a cigar day, but the excuse I gave everyone (including myself) was that I thought better when I smoked, Sanders' and Davis' murders had given me a lot to think _about_ and if I was going to get to the bottom of them, I needed a nicotine fix.

People claim that smoking is hazardous to your health. I don't know about mine, but it was certainly hazardous to this new guy's health, as the guards threw him practically on top of me and the burning end of my cigar very nearly went into his eye.

I caught hold of him, half pushing him out of harm's way and stubbed my cigar out on the ground, just to be on the safe side. Unfortunately I pushed a little too enthusiastically and the kid tumbled sideways, landed on the very edge of my cot and flipped it over on top of him with a _crash_. If the situation hadn't been so serious, I would have laughed. Instead, I righted my cot, fumbled underneath it until I located something that felt like an elbow, pulled it and its owner out, and got my first good look at him.

He was young, with the kind of face that makes a person look younger. I put him at twenty, maybe twenty one at a push. He was also handsome as hell; so handsome, in fact, that I wondered what he was doing here. That was my first thought: this kid belonged on a California beach or the cover of a magazine, not in some POW camp miles from home.

My second thought was that unless I managed to calm him down _right now_, he was going to bring the whole billet down around our ears. He was panicking, wild with terror. I don't know where he thought he was – still being interrogated, probably – and I didn't much care; I just wanted to stop him from going over the edge completely.

Charlie had done his work pretty thoroughly, though, and although this kid was in full-fledged fight or flight mode, he was too weak and too exhausted to put up a serious struggle. It didn't take me long before I had him pushed against the sturdiest of the walls. I kept him pinned there with one hand, the other reaching out toward my tin cup, which still had a mouthful or two of tepid water in it.

BA passed it to me, and I pressed it against this kid's mouth, trying to get him to drink something. This was a mistake, as I discovered when he somehow managed to summon up enough strength to slam it away from me onto the floor. A thrashing foot clipped me on the side of the face, hard enough to knock me off balance.

Looking back on it, I guess giving an hysterical kid fresh out of interrogation something to drink was a stupid thing to do. I think he was still being tortured – at least in his own mind – and from his point of view, I could have been pouring bleach or boiling water down his throat.

BA started forward to help me but I shook my head and he backed off again. He was certainly a lot stronger than I was and probably could have held this kid down with one hand, but his face isn't exactly relaxing. He was probably a little relieved, to tell you the truth; BA's one of those people who can't handle being around any form of insanity, even if – in the case of this kid – he knows it's only temporary. I wouldn't say he was _scared_ of it (at least, not to his face) but I think that's what it really comes down to.

Rolling onto my feet, I caught hold of the kid around the chest as he bolted for the exit and pinned him back against the wall. Panic too much outside in a POW camp and sooner or later one of the guards will shoot you just to shut you up.

I didn't want that to happen to this poor kid, and so I held him down and kept talking to him. I couldn't tell you what I said; just random nothings and plenty of them in the hopes that he'd slowly figure out that the guy who was trapping him against the wall and yammering on at him happened to be doing so in an American accent.

I could pinpoint the exact second when sanity returned; the wild look went out of his eyes, to be replaced by a mask. Usually it takes a good few seconds for that to happen, but in the case of this kid, it was instant, and a little unnerving. It was as though someone had reached into his brain and flicked a switch that said _Cope. NOW_!

"You alright?" I kept my face and voice calm, although my jaw was throbbing pretty badly by this point where he'd kicked me.

He didn't respond. I didn't think – and I don't now – that he was giving me the silent treatment; I think he was just trying to put his mind back together.

I released him, backing off a little, although I was still ready to grab him if he started kicking off again. I didn't think that was likely (if I had, I'd never have let him go) but I'm a soldier, not a psychiatrist, and I've been wrong before.

"Hey!" I snapped my fingers loudly and he jumped as though I'd fired a gun next to his ear. It did the trick though; his attention was now fully focused on me.

"Are you alright?" I repeated.

He stared at me, a bewildered look on his face, then looked around. His movements were quick, darting, almost feral.

"_Look_ at me!"

The kid jumped again – interrogation does tend to make you a little twitchy – and shifted his gaze back to my face.

"Are you alright now?" I spoke slowly, as though he couldn't understand English. It worked; he licked his lips and then nodded.

"Yes sir." It was so quiet and subdued I had to lipread it, but it was an answer and it was proof that the kid hadn't quite tipped over the edge yet.

"Are you sure?"

Another nod. He was white, shaking, but I thought he was telling the truth.

"Alright." I backed off further, giving him his space, and he frowned, staring at me as though seeing me for the first time. I guess in a way he was.

"What, uh, what happened to your face, sir?"

BA scowled at him. "_You_ did, fool!"

"I..._what_?" He twisted around to stare at BA, then pushed himself back, away from him. I didn't blame the kid. A scowling BA is not the most soothing of sights.

"_Sergeant_..." It wasn't quite a reprimand, but it was stern enough to make him subside. I didn't know a thing about this kid, but one thing I _did_ know was that he did not deserve to suffer the Wrath of BA so soon after arriving, and having just got him talking, I didn't want my sergeant frightening him into silence again.

Turning my attention back to our newest arrival, I softened my voice a little. "What's your name, soldier?"

"Peck, sir, Second Lieutenant, serial number...uh..." He frowned. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to drag the next part out of his battered mind. "Serial number..."

"Peck's fine," I told him, which earned me a look of bewilderment that took about five years off the kid's age. I think he still didn't quite know where he was or what was going on. "There's not much call for formality in this place. Of course, when we get out, it's a different story."

That was a little trick I'd picked up from my commanding officer in Korea. It worked; Peck relaxed a little. _When_ _we get out_ implied that there was no question we were going to survive this; _if we get out_ left too much room for doubt, no matter how much more accurate it might have been.

"How long have you been in 'Nam?" I asked him. Not that it really mattered; it was just something to keep him grounded in reality. Keep him talking, keep him aware of his surroundings. Answering my questions gave him something to focus on and stopped him sliding back into full panic mode.

He licked his lips. Again, I could see him struggling to concentrate, to work it out. "Uh...not long, sir. About...three weeks...I think."

This did not surprise me in the least, but I didn't say so. "You don't have to call me _sir_ here, kid. Name's Smith. Lieutenant-Colonel. People call me Hannibal."

He paled drastically at that. I could see the thought running through his head: _oh great, I just clobbered a colonel!_

"Sir, I...w-what I...well, what happened before, I didn't mean—"

I held up a hand and he stopped. Instantly. In fact, he did more than stop; he flinched as though he thought I was going to hit him.

"It's alright, kid. It's alright. Relax. You're not the first to crack, and you certainly won't be the last."

Peck swallowed, so hard I could hear him do it. "Am I in trouble, sir?"

I straightened up. "No. Not yet, anyway, although if you don't start calling me Hannibal that might change."

I'd meant it as more of a joke than a threat, but Peck didn't seem to see it that way; the wariness was now aimed at me as well as BA.

"I'm kidding," I told him.

"Oh." He looked around and I saw he was fully calm now. Calm, and bewildered. "What...where am I? I was...there was a room, and...the VC, and...a truck, and now..." Peck's voice trailed off and he looked around some more. "Where am I?"

I thought his confusion was due more to exhaustion than anything – sleep deprivation is one of the most common interrogation tactics – and I opened my mouth to reply, but unfortunately BA got there first.

"You in one a Charlie's death camps, an' you livin' on borrowed time, just like the resta us. Better hope the camp commandant don't get itchy for another interrogation victim, else you be dead in a couple days."

I closed my eyes. "Sergeant, do you by any chance remember the little talk we had about how to break bad news to a person _gently_?"

"It's alright, sir. I'd have found out sooner or later." Peck's voice was neutral, his face impassive, and something about that made me a little uneasy. This kid had been tortured and terrified to the very edge of insanity not twenty four hours ago. I found it hard to believe he'd recovered so fast, more like he'd just yanked a mask over his feelings, buried them deep down where nobody could get at them. Understandable, since everyone has their pride and nobody wants to be seen in hysterics, but I'd never met anyone who could hide inside himself quite as fast or as thoroughly as Peck.

There was something else I didn't much like, and that was the look in his eyes. It wasn't wild or crazy – I wasn't afraid of the kid suddenly going nuts and trying to smash up everything and everyone in the camp – it was just...no, not _hostile_, that's the wrong word as well.

_You are not my friend_. That's what it was, if I had to put it into words, but the strange thing was that it was nothing personal. I hadn't done anything to piss him off – how could I, when we'd only just met – and he didn't hate or even dislike me, but still...I was not his friend, and I got the feeling that he was just waiting to find out how much of an enemy I was going to prove to be. I was a little surprised by it, but didn't pay much attention. Torture can do funny things to the mind.

"So...what happens now?"

I raised my eyebrows. "What happens now? We wait. _You_ wait. There's not a lot of food here, and so you'd do well to avoid running any marathons; you'll need to conserve all the energy you can."

"Yeah, but...do they..." He swallowed. "I mean...well, the interrogation's over now, right? Right?"

I smiled a little. "You don't have to worry, kid. They're not big on torture here."

Alright...even taking into account the fact that Peck was too junior and inexperienced an officer to have been of much interest to the camp commander, this was probably the biggest lie since Pinocchio and the gold coins, but now that I'd calmed the kid down, I wanted to _keep_ him calmed down. As lies went, it wasn't a bad one and probably would have worked too, if Murdock hadn't walked in about three seconds after I'd got done telling it.

Actually, _walked_ is too generous a word; he stumbled, tripped over his own feet and would have fallen if I hadn't caught him. He was chalk white, shivering all over (although I noticed he'd managed to hold onto his trusty baseball cap) and his right wrist was badly swollen. He'd spent almost twenty four hours with Charlie, and I doubted the camp commander and his goons had let up on him once during those twenty four hours. He'd had nine kinds of hell beaten out of him; his lip was split in three places and blood streaked one side of his face from where the cut on his cheek had been reopened.

"Welcome back to the Hilton, Captain," I greeted him, and helped him towards the one unoccupied cot (mine). "Your suite's ready and waiting for you."

Murdock managed a grin, although it must have been pretty painful with that busted lip. "Thank you, Colonel. I sure do appreciate it. Didja talk ta the maid about turnin' down my blankets?"

I grinned back. "Yeah, but she says she's all out of those little chocolate mints."

"Ah, shoot! It's so hard to find good help these days!"

"Well, there is a war on," I couldn't resist pointing out as we crossed the tiny billet. Murdock was limping badly and although no trace of pain showed on his face, I was sure he felt a lot weaker than he let on; his grip on my arm was so tight it left bruises that took a full week to disappear.

"No torture, huh?" Peck's voice was flat, dull.

I shrugged. "Well—"

"Just give it me straight, Colonel! Be honest with me!"

I lowered Murdock very gently onto the cot, then turned to face our new roomie. There are limits to my patience, and this kid was starting to reach them.

"Okay. First of all, in case it escaped your notice—" I couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of my voice and didn't bother trying all that hard— "I have an injured man here. I'll fix him up, and _then_ I'll answer your questions, Lieutenant. Secondly, I'm not going to hold this against you, since we only just met, but for future reference...I'm honest with _all_ my men, whenever I can be."

BA snorted. "Yeah. Except for that time they threw us in the slammer!"

I gave him a _not now_ look. "BA, I was completely honest then too. When did I ever claim that I _wasn't_ an officer?"

He growled and looked away, which is his usual recourse when he doesn't want to admit he's just lost an argument.

It was true, though. We'd both wound up in the stockade for a few days in adjoining cells, and he and I had struck up a conversation through the wall. Although he'd been quick enough to give me his rank, I'd only introduced myself as Smith and he'd assumed I was ranked beneath him. Granted there had been a wall between us, like I said, and granted I probably hadn't helped matters by calling him _Sarge_, but still...I'd never actually _told_ him he outranked me. And at the end of it, I'd gotten a sergeant who was damn good at his job, if a little volatile.

That little turd Angel was going to pay for this, I thought grimly. In blood. With interest.

"Can you move your wrist?" I asked Murdock.

He tried, wincing, and managed to flex it a little, just enough to show it wasn't broken.

"Okay. Okay. We'll get that bandaged for you." I pulled my t-shirt off – it was too damn hot anyway – and handed it to BA, who promptly set about ripping it up and handing the pieces to me. "What happened?"

Murdock half closed his eyes. His shivers had subsided a little now and he didn't object when I took hold of his wrist and started to bandage it.

"On the way out. I tripped an' fell...one of 'em stamped on my wrist."

That wasn't all they'd done to it; the underside of his forearm was peppered with cigarette burns, some old, most fresh. I hadn't noticed them before.

"Show me your other arm." Under normal circumstances I'd have just reached across and grabbed it to see for myself, but things here were far from normal, and Murdock had been so thoroughly beaten that I didn't see how I could pull a stunt like that without making the pain worse.

"Ah...that ain't necessary, Colonel—"

"Necessary or not, Murdock, it's an order. Show me."

He winced as I kept working on his wrist, then obeyed, turning the other arm over for inspection. It wasn't a pretty sight; along with the cigarette burns on this arm, hot wax had been dribbled onto the skin – some of it was still there – and it looked like someone had then gone over the burns with sandpaper.

"Well, I won't lie to you. I've seen roadkill that looked better than you."

Murdock gave me a sidelong look. "Aw, Colonel. I bet you say that to all the captains."

"No torture, huh?" Peck muttered again, this time mostly to himself.

"_Put it on hold, Lieutenant_!" I rapped it out with as much authority as I could manage, and he subsided. "We don't use that word in this camp."

It was true; we didn't. Torture was something to fear, something to drive a man mad with the agony of anticipation. Being interrogated – which, along with _occupied_, was the camp euphemism – was far better. Interrogation just meant people asking you questions. Just questions. Nothing to be afraid of from questions, right?

Right.

"What do you call it then?" Peck demanded. "Involuntary blood donation?"

To my surprise, Murdock managed a laugh. A real laugh, not a polite one. "Hey, that ain't bad. Whaddaya reckon, Hannibal? Think it'll catch on?"

"I think _any_ phrase with the word _blood_ in it is going to make people nervous, Captain."

"Good point." He winced, eyes snapping shut as I tightened the bandage on his wrist, then he opened them again as he turned to look at Peck. "How 'bout compulsory contribution of tissues an' vital fluids?"

"How about you sit still and let me finish cleaning you up?" I demanded; Murdock had moved at just the wrong moment and the bandage around his wrist was now loose and dangling again.

"Sure, Colonel." The meek look on his face didn't fool me for an instant – I don't think Murdock has ever been genuinely meek and/or mild in his life – but he did sit still and let me redo the bandage. Once I'd finished, I passed my empty water cup to BA, who walked outside to refill it. I was a little surprised not to have to order him; usually his attitude is _you want your cup refilled, you do it yourself,_ but I was also relieved. Don't ask me why – even now, I've no idea – but I didn't want to leave Peck unattended just yet.

"Hi there." Murdock held out his left hand; even bandaged, the right one seemed too tender to move, much less be gripped and shaken. "Name's HM Murdock. You?"

Peck shook the offered hand automatically. "Uh...Lieutenant Peck, sir."

"Aw, Murdock's fine; you don't gotta stand on ceremony with me. No one else in this place does."

Whether it was the fact that he and Peck were similar in age – although I thought Murdock was a few years older – or his friendly approach, or something else entirely, I've no idea. Whatever it was, Peck relaxed a lot more than he had when I'd been talking to him.

"Do the men call any of the officers _sir_ here?"

I glanced over. "Well, they can if you want them to, although I wouldn't advise it. This really isn't the time or place to start throwing your weight around, Lieutenant."

Peck didn't seem to like that, although to my relief – not to mention surprise – he wasn't stupid enough to argue about it.

"Yeah...I guess they're kinda busy trying to avoid being tortured and/or shot. Things like that can really distract a guy."

It was so similar to what I'd told Sanders that I couldn't help grinning. "I couldn't have said it better myself. Sorry—" this was to Murdock, who'd hissed in pain as I'd reached out to take my full water cup from BA and accidentally brushed against his ribs.

Armed with a full cup of water, I examined the rest of him. There wasn't a lot I could do for the burns except wash them and hope like hell they wouldn't get infected, so I did. I'd been trying to put off working on his back. I was sure I wasn't going to like what I found there – his t-shirt was soaked with something I knew wasn't sweat – but I'd cleaned up just about every other injury I could find and there was nothing else for it.

"Murdock, I want to lift your t-shirt up, okay? I have to see what else they did."

I wasn't asking permission, although it sounded that way, but giving him a warning. People who have been tortured – particularly as recently as Murdock – don't like surprises. Lifting his t-shirt was easier said than done, however; the blood on his back had dried, sticking the fabric to the crusts.

"Murdock..." I hesitated. There didn't seem an easy way to tell him what had to be done.

"It's okay, Colonel." His voice was hoarse. "Jus' do it."

I hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, jus' do it now an' do it real quick, before I change my mind."

I obliged, ripping the t-shirt off like the world's biggest piece of tape and causing even BA to wince in sympathy (Peck looked like he was about to faint). Murdock sucked in his breath and snapped his head back, teeth bared in a rictus of pain as he swayed alarmingly. I caught hold of him before he could fall, supporting his weight as his head lolled forward onto my shoulder.

We sat there like that for several minutes, Murdock on the verge of passing out, me holding him and praying he wasn't going to throw up. Being puked on is another occupational hazard of being a soldier, but I've never enjoyed it all that much.

"Are you alright?" I had to repeat the question three times before it seemed to penetrate.

"...Yeah. Yeah, Colonel...I'm...I'll be fine." He pushed himself very gingerly away from me, white and sweating, then slumped sideways. Not unconscious, but too dizzy to sit upright.

"Okay. Okay, I got you." I grabbed onto his shoulders; if he'd gone all the way, he'd have fallen off the cot and probably cracked his head into the bargain. "C'mon. Lie down. I want to take a look at your back."

I helped him lie down on his stomach, or tried to, anyway. Murdock's ribs were too sore, and in the end he had to settle for lying on his side, half curled up around the pain.

BA handed me what was left of my sleeve and I soaked it in water, then turned my attention to Murdock. Blood was seeping rapidly out of several long cuts that had been ripped open, turning his entire back red even as I watched, and I felt sick. If I'd known it was this bad, I'd have been a lot gentler about taking the t-shirt off, no matter what Murdock might have said.

"What happened to you?"

Murdock managed a tight smile. "Oh, Charlie's gone an' found himself a scalpel, Colonel. Lucky it was too sharp ta hurt much."

I could believe that, but it didn't make it any easier to look at, and I was sure it hurt badly enough to make up for it now.

"Jesus, Murdock, I'm sorry."

He gave me a surprised look. "For what? Ain't nothin' you coulda done about it, Hannibal. Guess some of us're jus' too popular for our own good."

Peck swallowed so hard I heard his throat click, then said, "Yeah, well, if that's what passes for popularity around here, I think I'm gonna go sign up for the geek squad."

Getting a clean piece of t-shirt from BA, I soaked it and started sponging the mess that was Murdock's back. He winced, but lay still and didn't protest, even when I went over his ribs (and if some of those weren't cracked, then I was a corporal). I thought the VC had probably given him a damn good kick when he'd fallen, not to mention several before; there didn't seem to be an inch on his torso that wasn't black, blue or bleeding.

"You'll have to take it easy for a while. I don't have any way to tape those ribs."

Murdock shrugged, then winced again. "Ow! It don't matter. Ain't the first time. I'm gettin' used to it."

"That doesn't mean you should go looking for more of it! In future, I want you to leave Angel alone; he's not worth getting beat up for."

Murdock turned his head and spat a mixture of blood and saliva onto the ground. "He's a treacherous little creep, an' if I see him again, Hannibal, I'll break his nose."

"Yeah, with your cracked ribs and busted wrist," I retorted. "If you're going to pick a fight with him, at least wait until you're healthy enough to do some real damage."

"You don't gotta worry." I dreaded that note in BA's voice; it meant some poor sap was going to get their head torn off and rammed up their ass whether I liked it or not. "He ain't gonna know what hit him."

"Secure that, Sergeant!" I spoke sharply, not because I thought it would make him obey but because I wanted him to know that – unlike various other occasions – I wouldn't be prepared to turn a blind eye.

Murdock glanced at BA. "Hey, you wanna bust his ass, big guy, that'd be jus' fine with me. _And_ with everyone else 'round here."

"That goes for you too, Captain; you are _not_ the senior officer in this camp!" I glared from Murdock to BA and back to Murdock again. Neither of them looked away. "If you beat up on Angel, how long do you think it'll take for him to send you right back to Charlie?"

BA's brow lowered and one hand curled slowly into a fist. "Depends. How long you think it'd take him to wake up from a coma?"

Great; he was in one of his punch-the-world moods. That was all I needed.

"Leave him alone, BA, and that's an order."

He surged to his feet. "Ain't no officers give _me_ orders!"

I stood up as well, bare inches away from him. Part of the reason he respects me is that – unlike most of the other officers – I'm not afraid of him, and he knows it.

"Well, _this_ officer just did! Angel's a scumbag, but I can _not_ afford to have either you or Murdock out of action! Now _stand down, _Sergeant!"

There was a hot, tense moment between us, then BA turned away sullenly and sat down on his cot. "Man, the sucker ain't worth bruisin' my knuckles on."

"Hold onto that thought," I told him, then had a thought of my own. "And go bring in Sanders' cot." I glanced at Peck. "You superstitious, Lieutenant?"

"Uh...I don't think so, sir." He looked a little wary, as though afraid of failing some kind of test.

I nodded. "Good. So you're not going to have any problem sleeping on a cot where another officer was murdered a day or so back?"

"No sir." This in a subdued tone that suggested the answer was a lot closer to _yes_.

"Hannibal." Well, if he wasn't happy about it, he could always sleep on the floor. In fact, now that I thought about it, the floor might actually be more comfortable...

Peck didn't answer that directly; instead all he said was, "Who's Sanders?"

"The guy who thought he was in charge before I showed up." Someone had already taken Davis' cot – I had no idea who and I didn't much care either – but Sanders' had been left alone. Hard as things were and pragmatic as _we_ were, nobody wanted anything that had belonged to him, which suited me just fine.

It took a lot of maneuvering to get Sanders' cot into the billet. Three of us had been doable, but with Peck's arrival, it was really getting crowded in here. I hoped no more officers were going to show up, otherwise we'd end up either sleeping outside or on top of each other.

I don't think Peck liked the idea of sleeping on Sanders' cot – even by POW standards, it was in pretty bad shape – but he kept his mouth shut and helped us wedge it into the far end of the billet, then dropped onto it with an _I'm-not-moving-a-step-further_ expression. He was still jittery, flinching at sudden noises from outside and at times staring at Murdock's injuries with a kind of horrified fascination, but the wildness had completely gone from his eyes now...and unlike before, I didn't think it was an act. He knew where he was, he knew what the situation was, and now he could start to deal with it.

_At least, he can in the morning_, I thought, seeing his eyelids drooping.

"Lieutenant?"

He jerked awake. "Sir?"

I didn't bother correcting him, since I thought the kid was too tired to really take it in. Instead all I said was, "Get some rest. I'll call you if I need you."

_That_ was never going to happen, in my opinion, but something told me to keep playing it the Army way for now. I doubted Peck would doze off all the time he thought I wanted him to stay awake. Boot camp takes some people that way; when they come out, they're too frightened to sneeze without explicit permission from their commanding officer.

As I expected, Peck obeyed instantly, curling up on his cot and closing his eyes, head pillowed on one arm. Murdock had already fallen asleep (or passed out, I wasn't sure which), BA was lying on his back and brooding at the ceiling, and I decided to leave all three of them to it and headed out for a walk around the camp. The heat was oppressive during the day, but at night the temperature was almost pleasant, and I needed to clear my head.

"Hannibal?"

I stopped and turned, coming face to face with Gabney and Ferguson. I swear, those two were joined at the hip.

"Yes?"

"Is Captain Murdock okay?"

I raised my eyebrows. "After being interrogated for almost twenty four hours? No, he's not okay! But he'll survive, if that's what you're asking me. I cleaned him up as best I could, but he needs rest." I emphasised the last word as strongly as I could without sounding too sarcastic; I didn't want everyone in the camp barging in to visit him, or coming and demanding he solve all their problems.

The pair exchanged looks, then Gabney said, "Well...uh, maybe you should tell him that, Colonel."

I glanced around, following their gaze to where Murdock was standing – or rather, swaying – and talking to Barrett. Abandoning Gabney and Ferguson, I strode over. I must have been giving off some serious pissed-officer vibes, because Barrett took one look at me and excused himself before I was halfway there.

Catching hold of Murdock's arm, I turned him around to face me. "Murdock, _what_ are you doing out here?"

He gave me a long look, so long that at first I thought he wasn't going to answer.

"Pretty much the same thing you are, Colonel." His breath rasped loudly in his throat as he spoke and at that moment, he looked more dead than alive. I didn't like to think about how painful moving must be for him. "And Barrett said he was gettin' worried about Allen, so I figured—"

"I left you in the billet."

"Yeah, an' you woke me up when you went out. An' I'd rather not go to sleep again jus' yet, if it's all the same to you."

It wasn't all the same to me at all, but I understood his reluctance. There had to be quite a few dreams waiting for Murdock, and I didn't think any of them would be particularly nice ones.

"Murdock—"

"No, I mean it, Hannibal. You want me to sleep, you're jus' gonna hafta hit me over the head with somethin'."

If it hadn't been the equivalent of political suicide, Murdock being so damn popular with the rest of the men, I might have considered it. He needed rest badly, or he'd be no good for anything.

"Or sic the big guy on me," Murdock added.

That was something I'd never do, and not just because it would make me too similar to Sanders or Angel. A punch from BA would break Murdock's jaw and very probably put him into a coma to boot.

"I do my own punching."

"Not on me." This was nothing short of a warning. Under any other circumstances it might have been laughable, but I knew better. If I laid a finger on Murdock, I didn't think there was a man in camp who wouldn't rise up and beat me to a pulp.

"Not usually on anyone, Captain, unless they really piss me off. Besides, you're in pretty bad shape after that little meeting with the VC; I don't want to make it worse." Thinking of that reminded me of something else and I glanced at him. If Murdock was determined to chat, then we may as well chat about something important. "What do you think of Peck?"

"What do I think of him?" Murdock glanced over his shoulder to our billet, then back to me. "I think someone picked that kid up an' stuffed him full a broken glass at some point."

"You mean he's been hurt?" Admittedly the broken glass description was a lot punchier, but I don't always get what Murdock's driving at with his phrases. I sometimes wonder whether _he _does.

"Hurt ain't the word for it. I ain't never seen so much anguish in one small body before an' that's the truth. Guess he got a story or two to tell."

I frowned as I considered this. Murdock was right; _anguish_ was the exact word. It was well hidden, so well hidden that you'd never see it if you didn't know it was there.

"At least he didn't scream or cry." Granted I thought anyone – particularly anyone Peck's age – who wound up here had a right to do that, but that didn't mean I enjoyed watching it.

Murdock's answer surprised me. "Oh, I think he's doin' plenty a screamin', Colonel. Just not out loud." He glanced back again with a dramatic shudder. "Man, I wouldn't like to see what's goin' on inside that poor guy's head."

I looked at him, more serious now. "And what about what's going on inside _your_ head, Murdock?"

Murdock returned my look with a surprised expression that seemed a little too perfect to be natural.

"Ain't nothin' goin' on inside _my_ head, Colonel, an' before you shoot that zinger past me, I would jus' like to clarify that what I meant was there ain't nothin' goin' on inside my head _except_ for general head type stuff!"

I laughed, but not for long.

"You're under a lot of stress, Murdock, and I mean a _lot_."

Murdock shrugged. "Ain't we all?"

"The rest of the men haven't had to try and run a POW camp while fending off two senior officers for...well, however long you've been here. How exactly do you cope with it?"

He shrugged again. "I cope with it 'cause I have to."

"That's not nearly good enough." When he didn't seem inclined to answer, I pushed a little harder. "Look, we're on the same side, Murdock—"

Murdock looked away. "No disrespect, Colonel, an' I ain't lookin' to call you a liar, but I heard that one before."

I moved in front of him and caught hold of his jaw. I did it as gently as I could – I didn't want to _hurt_ him, just convince him to listen to me – but he still winced as I forced his head back around to look at me.

"Not from me, Captain." I kept my voice low, very calm.

"No. Not from you." There was a touch of cynicism there, the barest suggestion that it made no difference who he heard it from; it was still a trite statement with no real strength to it. I had a handle on him now; he wasn't _angry_ exactly (at least, not like Young or BA) just...frustrated. I thought I could work out most of his story for myself; he'd been dumped here, had had to battle against the likes of Charlie's mind games and had thought – justifiably enough – that he shouldn't have to champion sixty odd men against two senior officers in his own Army as well.

I looked at him. "Alright. Let's sit down, have a talk. I think there are one or two things we need to get cleared up."

We settled down, both of us leaning back against D Barracks (one thing I'd learned very quickly in Korea was that resting your back against the perimeter fence of a POW camp was a damn good way to get kicked in the kidneys)...and in Murdock's case, I didn't think he could sit up without leaning against something.

"Point one. I am not Sanders or Angel. I don't give a damn about making nice with Charlie. All I care about is keeping these men safe and alive long enough for us to get out."

He looked at me, voice very low. "You plannin' an escape?"

"No." If I hadn't been in charge, I might already have been digging that tunnel, but I had a campful of soldiers to worry about. I'd never deserted any of my men before and I wasn't about to start now.

Murdock nodded slightly and I thought I'd probably gone back up in his estimation after the false accusation fiasco. That was one good thing about him; he was willing to forgive and forget.

"Point two. I still want you on my team, Captain."

"Why me?"

There was no challenge or fishing for compliments there that I could detect, just a genuine interest in what I had to say.

"The men like you. They trust you. You're smart, and you got more guts than a slaughterhouse. I like you and more to the point, _BA_ seems to like you, which is practically unheard of."

Murdock grinned. "Yeah, people do kinda take to me, Colonel." Again, there was no conceit; he was stating a fact.

"Exactly. And you know all the men here, which is more than I do."

He glanced sidelong at me. "Ain't nothin' stoppin' you."

"No, except I've only been here for a few days and for most of those Sanders was trying to turn me into a little yes-man. I didn't have a lot of time to wander around."

Murdock looked back at the sky again. "Especially since you were so busy thinkin' up new ways ta piss Sanders off an' smokin' those cigars – you ain't gonna light up again, are ya?" he asked as my hand strayed towards my pocket.

I was, but given how much Murdock seemed to hate the smell, I thought I could wait. Not something I usually bother doing – if I outranked a soldier, then that soldier soon learned to deal with the sweet smell of cigar smoke – but I wanted to keep this particular soldier on my side. Young though he was, I didn't think Murdock was immature enough to take against me just because he didn't hold with smoking, but I knew it would bug him and right now I didn't want him bugged.

"No."

He glanced at me again, a quirky smile on his lips. "Liar."

Usually, hearing that word leveled at me with no evidence would result in the leveler getting a broken nose, no matter his age or rank – I pride myself on never telling a lie unless it's absolutely necessary, like earlier when I'd told Peck there was no torture here – but coming from Murdock...I don't know. Somehow, he was so obviously kidding that he managed to pull it off.

I was also beginning to understand what Ferguson had meant by _Murdock's...Murdock_. The guy was impossible to describe in any other words; he wasn't a brown-nose, he wasn't a rebel, he wasn't a conventional officer, he wasn't a traitor or a coward, he was a...a...well, he was a Murdock.

"Alright. Cards on the table, Murdock. I want you on my team and if you don't agree, I'll get BA to hold you down while I smoke these cigars in your face."

"Now that is cruel an' unusual punishment an' you _know_ it!" It wasn't said seriously; like I had earlier, he understood I was kidding.

I chuckled. "Yeah, isn't it?" I paused, then added more seriously, "I don't blame you for being wary of me, not after everything you must have gone through when Sanders was in charge. But he's gone now, and things have changed. Trust me."

It came out sounding a lot more serious than I'd intended, and I suddenly realised that it was what I'd meant all along. I couldn't think of anything else to say and so I said it again.

"Trust me."

I don't know what finally helped him make up his mind. Maybe it was the way I'd tended his injuries earlier, although I was sure he knew that I hadn't done it just to win brownie points from him. Maybe it was my treatment of Angel and/or Sanders. Maybe it was all these things or something completely different; I never found out for sure. Whatever it was, he turned to look at me, then nodded once, very slowly.

"Alright." He held out his right hand to me, rather clumsily. I didn't shake it – it was still far too tender for that – but I took it and squeezed it.

We sat together for several minutes, neither of us moving or speaking. There were plenty of things I wanted to ask him (and not all of them related to the POW camp; I was getting more and more curious about this officer) but they could wait until he was a little better and more able to focus on me. In the meantime, I had plenty to occupy my mind, not least of which was this Peck character. I didn't know him nearly well enough yet to know what kind of officer he was, besides young and inexperienced, and until I did, I'd keep a wary eye on him.

A sudden warmth on my side shook me out of this reverie, jerking my attention down to where Murdock had finally given in to his body's demands and slumped sideways, head resting on my shoulder as he slept. I don't think it was a conscious display of trust on his part; he'd just dozed off, tilted sideways, and I'd happened to be between him and the ground at the time. I could have moved, I guess, woken him and got him back to the billet, but if I did I thought he'd only force himself to stay awake again. Better to let him stay there and sleep, no matter how much more comfortable his cot might have been.

I glanced down at him and found myself wondering about him. Usually I don't waste too much time thinking about my men; if there's anything I want to know about their background, I just reach for their file. Since that wasn't an option here, I'd have to figure it out the old-fashioned way; by asking him. I didn't even know where he was from. His accent suggested Texas, but it wasn't _pure_ Texan by any means. Right now, all I knew about him was that he was twenty five and getting a little thin on top, as he put it.

_Twenty five_. It was pretty young, when you thought about it. Oh, he acted like someone much older – this particular twenty five year old was wise beyond his years, as the saying goes – but that didn't alter the fact that some of my men, and probably some of the men in this camp too, had been in the Army for longer than he'd been alive.

I hadn't meant to fall asleep, but my body had other ideas and I drifted off as well, only waking when Murdock jerked upright all of a sudden and cracked his head against mine.

For a moment there was a lot of confusion. Neither of us were fully awake yet and in the dark and that state of mind, we were both convinced that the other was a camp guard. I didn't attack him, exactly – like I said, picking fights with the guards really is not worth the consequences, even by my standards – but I did pin him against the wall and Murdock called me...something in Vietnamese. My Vietnamese hovered right around the level of _Yes, No, Please, Thank you _and _Drop your weapons right now or I'll blow you sons of bitches away_ (that last one I could rattle off like a native) but I got the meaning of Murdock's phrase well enough.

We came back to our senses at the same time, so much so that if the situation hadn't been so serious, it would have been funny.

"_Colonel_?"

"_Captain_?"

We stared at each other for a few seconds, then he winced and I dropped my hands and backed away from him like he'd turned red-hot.

"Damn, Murdock, I'm sorry." I was too, and ashamed. I was the senior officer. Senior officers did _not_ slam their own injured men into buildings in a fit of panic, no matter what the circumstances.

"It's alright, Colonel."

But it wasn't alright and I could see it. Murdock was shivering violently, cradling his injured wrist to his chest. Had I crushed that when I pinned him against the wall? I could just about see him standing there in the semi-darkness, weaving very slightly in that way people have when they're not sure if they're going to pass out or not.

"C'mon, sit down."

Somehow he managed to shake his head. "I'm—"

"Goddammit, Murdock, _sit_ down before you fall down and that's an order!" My voice was a lot sharper than I'd intended - guilt takes me that way - and Murdock shot me a surprised look. He still didn't obey, but I don't think he was defying me. Dizziness scrambles the signals between your brain and your limbs, and sometimes it's damn hard to figure out how to raise your hand, let alone sit down. A dizzy or lightheaded person's eyes might register the fact that there's a wall or a chair there, but their brain isn't capable of making the connection and telling their body to avoid it...which is probably why Murdock took a tottering step forward and then crashed sideways into D Barracks.

I caught hold of him as he fell, sat him down and pushed his head firmly between his legs, holding him there in that position.

"You're a damn idiot, Murdock." I kept any real sharpness out of my voice; the kid may have been an idiot, but he didn't deserve to get chewed out for it, and I couldn't bring myself to really chew out an officer whose only offence had been concern for his men. "You should have stayed in the billet."

Murdock didn't answer. I wasn't even sure he'd heard me.

"What were you dreaming about, anyway?" I know it wasn't a good question to pick, but it was all I could think of just then and something inside urged me to keep Murdock talking.

He went very still, then said in a low voice, "Bateman."

_Bateman...Bateman_...I knew I'd heard that name recently, but so much seemed to have happened that I couldn't remember who it belonged to. Luckily, Murdock didn't leave me in suspense for long.

"He was the only medic in camp. He had an injury on his leg that got infected...I think it went to septicemia in the end. We had no painkillers, nothin'. Sanders heard a rumor that one of the men might be plannin' to ease him on his way an' he went nuts. Banned anyone in the ranks from goin' near him on the grounds that he wasn't about ta let any a _his_ men commit murder."

"Did that work?"

"Didn't stop me, but I ain't in the ranks."

He seemed a little better and so I moved my hand away from his neck, allowing him to sit up. He was staring at his hands, but I don't think he saw them.

"And did you? Ease him on his way?"

"No."

That was a surprise; I'd expected him to say _yes._ He wouldn't have been the only man to do it – I'd helped a couple of dying men on their way myself, when there was nothing else anyone could do for them – but the first time's hard.

"So what happened?" In all honesty, I wasn't sure I wanted to know anymore, but I thought Murdock needed to talk, needed to get it off his chest.

"He screamed, Colonel. A lot. A helluva lot. I stayed with him best I could, an' sometimes that's all you can do for a guy, y'know?"

I nodded. I knew alright. Boy, did I know.

"I went away ta get a little rest, an' ten minutes after I left, he died."

He fell silent again and I filled in the rest. "And you feel guilty about leaving him to die on his own."

"Yeah, I guess." It was said angrily, but that didn't matter. The anger wasn't directed at me; it was aimed at himself for – I suspected – being less than perfect.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Sure, Colonel." His voice was dull and said quite clearly that he didn't believe a word I was saying, that he was agreeing with me because he hoped it would shut me up. I guess he wasn't kidding when he said he didn't know me.

"Don't you _sure, Colonel_ me, Murdock!" I mimicked his Southern twang (what _was_ that accent?) and he shot me a look. That was good. Being pissed at me or surprised was better than beating the hell out of himself.

To my surprise, he laughed.

"Not bad." This in a perfect imitation of not just my accent, but also my voice, then he reverted to his normal accent and became serious again. "But it don't change a thing, Colonel."

"Murdock, how the hell could you have known? Okay, maybe you made a mistake—"

"Makin' mistakes is not an option, Hannibal."

Jesus. If that was his philosophy, it was a wonder his mind hadn't snapped already.

"No, it's an inevitability," was all I said. I don't know why it was suddenly so important for him to understand; I just thought that if I could make him see and accept that it wasn't his fault, then maybe I could ease some of the crippling pressure this kid had found himself under. "And it's not your fault."

He shifted his weight, no longer looking at me. "Well. Anyway."

I let it go at that. Something told me that Murdock, for all his outgoing ways, was a private person by nature, one who didn't appreciate his actions being analysed. I'd said my piece, and I'm not a great one for repeating myself. Hopefully I'd given him something to think about.

Despite the bad dreams, it didn't take long for Murdock to fall asleep again. After his little session with the commandant, not to mention the internal struggles in this camp, I guess it wasn't surprising the poor guy was exhausted.

I dozed off myself, but never for very long. I was catnapping, sleeping on and off for about twenty minutes at a stretch. Sleeping propped up against a hard building isn't the most comfortable of positions and I didn't want to move for fear of disturbing Murdock (sometimes I think Decker's right and I really _am_ too nice to my men). I guess the captain was too tired to care about such niceties as physical comfort, but I wasn't, and that night was rough even by Army standards.

This meant I was quite pleased when morning came.

It also meant that I was awake in time to see the two guards leave the commandant's building and make a beeline straight for us. I thought they were coming for Murdock, and shook him a little, trying to wake him. Being grabbed by camp guards is bad enough, without them catching you by surprise.

Murdock, however, didn't respond. I only realised my mistake when the guards reached past him and grabbed _me_ instead, yanking me up.

"What—hey!" I jerked back, not because I planned to fight (that would just make it about ten times worse for me in the end) but because if they hauled me up so fast, Murdock was going to lose his headrest and crash onto the ground.

One of the guards solved this problem, however, by seizing Murdock by the front of his t-shirt and half shoving, half throwing him to the ground. He landed full on his injured wrist and let out a yelp that was only a few decibels away from being a scream, rolling onto his side. Apparently not satisfied with this, the guard took half a step forward and delivered a full-blown kick to Murdock's nuts that was so hard that even his companion winced.

I started towards him, only to have my arms seized and wrenched behind my back with such force I felt a muscle in my shoulder tear. Murdock's tormentor looked up at the guard who was restraining me and said something in Vietnamese. I didn't get the meaning, but I heard the amusement in his voice as he glanced back at Murdock, and I had never wanted to beat up on anybody quite so badly in my whole life.

I kept quiet, though. Didn't say or do anything. I wasn't afraid for myself, but if word got back that Murdock and I were friends, or even that I felt protective of him, then there was a damn good chance that the camp commandant would start torturing Murdock to get to me.

Apparently realising that I wasn't about to add to their fun by trying to protect my captain, the guard abandoned Murdock in favor of helping his buddy haul my ass over to the commandant's HQ. They didn't do it all that gently, but that didn't matter. I hadn't been in the camp long enough for malnutrition or exhaustion to have really set in, and I was able to keep to their pace well enough.

BA emerged from our tiny billet just in time to see what was happening, and started towards us.

"_Hey Hannibal_!"

"_STAND DOWN, BARACUS_!" I yelled that order like I'd never yelled at anyone before. I did not want him caught up in this; even though Murdock had agreed to come on board with me, my position as senior officer in this camp was a tenuous one, and I needed BA out there, not with me in interrogation.

Miracle of miracles, he actually obeyed me. I think it was mostly shock; my calling him _Baracus_ happens about as often as his calling me _sir, _and when I do, it gets his attention if not always his compliance.

Then I was shoved into the commandant's HQ and the door slammed shut behind me.

* * *

**Okay, the general consensus seems to be that most people want the odd chapter from Face's POV, but not too many and not just yet (maybe when he's established himself a little more, say in...four or five chapters ;))**

**That said...I **_**could**_** always do the Face/Murdock conversations from Murdock's POV instead of Face's, thus keeping the focus mainly on Hannibal and Murdock *thinks* (Man, I wish I'd thought of that for the last chapter *thwaps self on forehead* Oh well)**

**I'll have a play around, but again, if anyone has a preference for a Murdock POV instead of Face, just let me know (This is an either/or; I don't want to split the story into three POVs :-)) In the meantime, hope you enjoyed this and if you read, please review!**


	6. Interrogation

**Whooligan86:** *blushes* Thanks XD And here, one update ;)

**Kitty:** Okay, here...is this soon enough? XD

**wotumba1:** Thanks :) Yeah...I'm still in two minds about whether to split up the POVs...:S

**Idi:** Thanks. And I will definitely keep it up, no worries about that ;)

**maria:** Thanks XD Face having a tough upbringing...well, everyone has their own view on that (I've worked out extensive backstories for him and the rest of the A-Team, so I always have something to refer to...my version of Face did have a fairly rough ride in life!) He always struck me as a vulnerable character (this is something Dirk Benedict also confirmed), plus there was that whole thing with Leslie. As speculation, I guess people think Face had a tough time purely because he was an orphan growing up in the care system, which, sadly, isn't always everything it should be :( (And from the point of view of this fic, all this happened far more recently than it did in the TV series ;))

* * *

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little apprehensive. The thought of torture didn't frighten me too much – I'd been tortured before, a few times in Korea and once before they sent me here to the camp – but nobody likes walking into the unknown. Once I knew what they were planning to do (and based on Murdock, I thought candle wax and cigarettes probably featured in those plans, along with a good old-fashioned beating; they didn't seem to be too original here) I could handle it.

My guards shepherded me into a small room. It wasn't that extravagant or luxurious, but to a guy like me who had spent the last four days sleeping in a tiny building with two other men – three, with Peck – it was a palace. Several prints hung on the walls and a bookshelf was tucked away into the corner. I had a feeling most of the books were in Vietnamese (it was too far away to be really sure) but still, I wished I could somehow smuggle one out. My mind was starting to protest the lack of stimulation, and after all, Murdock could probably translate...

_Yeah. Once he's recovered from what these jerks did to him_.

Thinking of that brought me up sharply and I looked away from the books. A table set for three was the main focus of the room, with more types of food than I'd seen in many restaurants. At one side was Angel, who I noticed had taken slightly too much food into his mouth and was desperately trying to swallow it before he looked even more of an idiot. I'd never met the small, slender Vietnamese sitting at the head of the table, but I was sure I knew who it was: General Chow, camp commandant. He looked calm, even pleasant, but I wasn't fooled. This was the guy who'd tortured Murdock for almost twenty four hours straight, and who knew how many other men?

"Lieutenant-Colonel Smith." Chow smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes. "I have heard all about you from my friend Angel here."

I glanced at the Navy lieutenant, whose chest had inflated at Chow's mention of _my friend Angel_, and bit back an urge to laugh. The one thing I knew for sure about soldiers – US or otherwise – was that they despised traitors. Chow and his men would pamper Angel and keep him sweet because he was damn useful to them, but if Angel believed they actually liked or respected him for betraying his own men, he was even more stupid than I'd first thought.

At that moment, impossible though it sounded, I actually missed Sanders. Granted he'd been a lousy officer, and granted I'd spent most of my waking hours trying not to punch his teeth down his neck for his treatment of the men, but at least he'd been out there in the camp and suffered with them.

I met Chow's eyes and said calmly, "Now if that were _true_, General, you'd never smile at me like that."

The smile never flickered. "I see." He shook his head. "What have your men been telling you about me?"

"Actually, your name doesn't come up all that often," I told him. "Most of our discussions center around niceties such as Plato, the use of social commentary and metaphors in Jane Austen's books, and, of course, what we're going to do to that traitorous little sleazeball sitting next to you and stuffing his face with whatever it is he's eating." Looking at the food made my stomach growl loudly and I gave a mental wince.

_Wonderful. So much for preserving a sense of tough dignity._

"Poached fish with rice in a white wine sauce," Chow informed me. Reaching out, he lifted an empty bowl and spooned some of the food into it, then handed bowl and spoon to me. "Please. Try some. You must be hungry."

Oh god, it was going to be the _we're all buddies_ approach. I'd have preferred him spitting in my face and beating the hell out of me. Of course, that was coming; I had no innocent ideas about avoiding torture – about the only way I might be able to do that would be to sell out like Angel, and I'd take a beating over that any day – but did we have to go through this charade first?

I did take the fish, though. I'd been watching Angel stuff himself to explosion point on this particular dish for a couple minutes now, so it probably wasn't poisonous. If Chow changed his mind about giving it to me...well, one good punch in the stomach would soon get it back. I wasn't stupid enough to sit down at the table without an invitation, but instead ate standing up, then placed the empty bowl back on the table.

Chow smiled. "Good, isn't it?"

I nodded. It hurt to agree with him, but there was no way on earth that I could deny it with any credibility; the fish _was_ good. _Seriously_ good. I was experienced enough to know that part of that was down to the fact that I hadn't eaten much beyond bread and a little rice ever since arriving here (not counting what I took off Angel that time) but a lot of it wasn't. Whoever had cooked this was one hell of a mess chef.

"Do you want some more?"

I did, very much, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking for it. "No thanks, but if you don't want it then I'll take the dish out to my men."

"Your men, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, can get their own." There was a very slight edge to Chow's voice now, only noticeable if – like me – you were listening hard for it.

I gave him my best smile. "Okay."

Before he realised what I was going to do, I'd picked up the shallow bowl containing the fish and hurled it Frisbee style out the window. It flew beautifully – even I was surprised – but I didn't have much time to brag about my throwing arm, as one of the guards slammed me in the back of the head with his rifle and I dropped to my knees as strobe lights exploded behind my eyes.

"We'd finished eating anyway." Angel's voice carried an unconvincing note of bravado, much like the man who walks into a lamppost and claims that he _meant_ to do that.

I pulled myself to my feet, smiling again despite the angry throbbing in my skull and the tiny flashing lights in front of my eyes. "Really? Well, since I'm the new boy here, allow me to clear away your plates."

A round plate of some kind of chicken and rice dish didn't fly quite as nicely as the fish, but it was enough to get it through the window, leaving a trail of sauce behind it.

"And we'd been meaning to throw that out anyway." Now Angel sounded a little more confident. "It wasn't really up to standards."

I dipped my finger in one of the sauce puddles and sucked it experimentally, then nodded.

"You're right. Needs a little salt." I grabbed the shaker and threw it after the fish and the chicken.

Angel opened his mouth again, but Chow got in first.

"_Shut up_!"

My interest perked up a little. Maybe I could twist this around a little, turn it to my advantage.

I put on my best imitation of Chow's _you're my new best friend _smile. "Yeah. I'd watch Angel, if I were you, General."

Chow hesitated, confirming my suspicions that he wasn't a stupid man. He may hate me, just like he probably hated all Americans, but he wasn't too wrapped up in that hatred to listen.

"What do you know about him?"

I shrugged. "Nothing. But think about it. If a man betrays one Army...why not another?"

"He knows nothing, Colonel Smith."

"He knows you. And face it, Chow, if this all goes belly-up on you and the US Army arrives, do you really think Angel will stay loyal? You really think he'll admit to treason, just because he likes you so much?"

"I will risk it." He was speaking for effect; we both knew that Angel would jump sides again the instant we got out of here. Unfortunately we _also_ both knew that the US Army wasn't going to do a damn thing about any POW camp unless it happened to blunder right into one, and the VC were very careful to avoid that happening.

I shrugged again. "Your funeral, General."

"Enough!" Angel fixed me with what he probably intended for a hard stare, but instead came off as advanced constipation. "I want you to tell us everything you know about the state of the troops when you left, Smith."

I stared at him. Well...no, _stared_ is probably too dignified a word. The truth is I gawked at Angel like a kid at his first Christmas parade. Even I would think twice about speaking in front of a senior officer like that. Angel hadn't even had the common sense to say _we_; it was _I_. _I _want.

"The lieutenant asked you a question." I recognised Chow's tone; it meant _and he's going to get his ass reamed, steamed and dry-cleaned for it the minute everyone else is gone._

I curled my lip. "I don't answer to traitors."

"Then you will answer to me." Chow's voice was hard. I think he had the only answer he really cared about; my contempt for Angel meant I wasn't likely to join him in selling out my men.

"Probably, although that depends on what you wanna know, and on what you're willing to offer."

This confused him a little – if I hated traitors so much, then why was I talking about doing a deal with him now? – but he hid it well.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I mean I want you to leave Captain Murdock alone," I told him bluntly.

Chow stared at me and I felt the temperature drop another couple degrees. "You are _not_ in a position to give the orders around here, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith."

"He doesn't know anything. Angel's been playing you for a sucker, General."

Chow didn't respond to this with the anger I'd expected, and I wondered if that was because he hadn't understood it. His English was excellent, but it was of the proper grammar book variety. Slang and colloquialisms probably didn't mean all that much to him, and Angel didn't seem inclined to interpret my words.

"Captain Murdock worked for the CIA before transferring to the regular Army at both his and his superior's request, Smith." Angel's drawl rang harshly in my ears but I didn't say anything. This was too interesting to stop now. "He _knows_ a good deal more than you suspect, and sooner or later, he'll talk."

I was surprised, and I think it showed. I never would have figured Murdock for the CIA type; he seemed too...well, too honest. Maybe that was what Angel had meant by _at his and his superior's request_.

"Lieutenant, if you think you're going to break _Murdock_, you're dreaming." It's rare, but you occasionally come across someone who can't be broken, no matter what you do to them. I'd heard of such people, but until I met Murdock, I'd never fully believed they existed.

Angel shrugged. "Well, if he doesn't break, he'll die. If he doesn't die, he'll go insane. Even if we don't get the information we need, at least he won't be sniffing around causing trouble for us."

"We? Us?" I raised my eyebrows. "You're hardly one of the club, Angel. In case it slipped your notice, there aren't many blonde, blue-eyed Vietnamese kicking around."

Angel kept quiet. I don't really know what kind of answer I expected, to be honest. What was he going to say to me in front of Chow: _whoops, you're right, sir, I really am a loyal American after all_?

"Are you going to cooperate with us, Smith?" Chow wanted to know.

I smiled at him, a warm, friendly expression, and said, "Not in this lifetime, dirtball."

I guess someone must have hit me from behind, because at that moment the entire world went dark.

When I came to, I was in a small room, mostly empty with wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling. I was suspended from one of these by the wrists, which made my wrenched shoulder throb angrily. My weight was dragging me down, stretching my skin taut across my muscles. That wasn't good. It meant any pain would feel about ten times worse. It also meant that one good yank on my waist or ankles would dislocate both my shoulders.

_And Murdock was here for twenty four hours_? I hadn't even been here for as many minutes and my body was already protesting. I could feel the too-tight ropes chafing through the skin on my wrists with the weight being dangled from them, and I was sure they'd wind up bleeding before too long.

I twisted my hands around until I could grip the rope with my fingers and then managed to lift myself up a little. That was better. I didn't think I could keep it up for long, but it gave me a little relief for the minute.

Chow stepped forward, all business now. "Lieutenant Angel is certain there are reinforcements coming, although he is not sure where they are coming from."

I lifted my head enough to stare at him. "What the hell makes you think _I'd_ know anything about that?"

Chow sighed, the soft, almost genteel sigh of a father forced to discipline a much-loved child. "Stubbornness is not the answer here, Smith."

"Who said I was being stubborn? What Angel knows doesn't apply to me, General, and vice versa."

He narrowed his eyes. I wasn't sure he understood _vice versa_, but he got the rest of it well enough.

"Explain."

"Angel's Navy. I'm Army. Maybe the US Navy _does_ have reinforcements coming in, but if they _do_, do you really believe they'd tell a lieutenant-colonel in the US Army about them?" I almost suggested that if Chow wanted to know about these reinforcements, he'd do better interrogating one or other of the two Navy men who had arrived in the camp with Angel, then I swallowed that on the nasty suspicion that he might just decide to take my advice. The Navy guys were viewed as outsiders, mostly because Angel was Navy as well (and also because even life in a POW camp wasn't enough to put an end to the Army/Navy rivalry) but from the little I'd seen so far, they seemed okay. Certainly they didn't deserve to be tortured, although I was sure I hadn't bought them much of a reprieve. Chow was smart enough to know that if he wanted answers about the Navy, he'd have to ask a Navy man.

"Then tell me about the Army, Smith."

I smiled. "Sure, General. The Army is made up of a whole bunch of really great guys with big guns, big missiles, big bombs...in short, a bunch of guys who _love_ making things go boom. Now, there are several ranks in the Army, the lowest of these being Private and the highest being General. I happen to be a Lieutenant-Colonel, which is further down the ladder than up it, having four officer ranks below me and five above. I couldn't say why I don't get promoted as often as I should, except I think my refusal to keep my mouth shut might have something to do with it. Next question?"

It came in the form of a punch. A damn hard one. It was hard to believe anyone as small as Chow packed a punch like that.

He glanced at the two men standing off to my side. "Get me some answers. _Fast_."

Pain rocketed up my back and then shot down to my feet as one of them hit me in the kidneys with what felt like a baseball bat.

I gritted my teeth. I hadn't expected them to start quite so hard; the normal way of torturing information out of a person is to begin with relatively gentle methods, such as an old fashioned beating.

The sound of a match being struck came from off to my left and I winced inwardly. Burns were nasty; not only did they hurt in themselves, but they also offered the torturer a patch of nice, tender skin to play with. Rubbing it with sandpaper or steel wool was always a favorite.

Then I noticed one of my torturers lighting a cigar and felt my throat constrict, not with fear but with longing. I wanted that cigar. I really wanted that cigar.

Did they know I smoked, or did they usually use cigars? I'd assumed Murdock's burns came from cigarettes, but that was only because cigarettes were more usual, and a thin cigar and a cigarette were probably about the same diameter.

The man brought the lit cigar around behind me, moving it close enough for me to feel the heat from the glowing end, then taking it away again. It was a mind game, and one I'd played several times before. If they'd tried it on a far greener soldier – Peck, for instance, or maybe Gabney – they'd have had better results. Me? Well, all the time it didn't hurt, my mind blanked it as irrelevant.

I stayed motionless. Being dangled from the ceiling meant I didn't have a lot of choice, unless I planned to swing out and kick someone, and torturers get a little pissy about being kicked in the face. I was sure I'd survive this and equally determined that I wasn't going to break, but that didn't mean I wanted to make things harder on myself.

Red-hot pain stabbed at my shoulder as the man crushed the cigar out on my shoulderblade. I couldn't stop the slight wince, but other than that I didn't react and I was sure they didn't expect me to. Men who burst into tears and bawl out every military secret they know after one cigarette burn (or cigar burn, in this case) didn't usually wind up ranked as high as I was. Besides, the anticipation was worse than the actual pain.

Another match. This time after relighting the cigar, he held the lit match against my inner arm, burning it, turning the sensitive skin there an ugly shade of red. I could smell my own flesh starting to cook.

The other guy took the lit cigar from him and trailed it very lightly over my back, leaving threads of needle-sharp pain behind. It was bad, but I'd endured far worse.

I don't know how many cigars they trashed on me. Probably not as many as it felt like. I didn't tell them anything, of course. Even if I'd wanted to, they didn't seem inclined to ask me any questions. This wasn't really an interrogation, but a taster of what was to come; a way of saying _This is what will happen to you if you don't cooperate_. I couldn't help the odd wince (especially when one of them ground the lit cigar into the burn on my inner arm) and the pain in my arms as my weight dragged on them was getting worse by the second, but otherwise I was completely calm. Unruffled, at least on the outside.

"Does it hurt?" Chow's voice was awash with false sympathy. There was no fooling this guy; he knew damn well it hurt.

Well, since he'd spoken to me, I guessed I could answer him without looking like I'd broken, and so I coughed, injecting a broken note into my voice.

"General...I don't think I can take much more...just seeing all those poor cigars, _wasted_...forced to throw their lives away for _nothing_..."

That made even one of my torturers smile briefly. Chow did not.

"Well, if this method of questioning distresses you so much, then we must try another."

_Should've seen that one coming_, I thought as he picked up the scalpel and swiped it across my back several times.

Murdock was right; it was too sharp to hurt much, at least to begin with. It was like a thin branch whipping across your body; you felt the impact before the pain. There was a couple seconds' pause, and then it started to sting. Hard.

I still wasn't afraid except in the most primeval sense, and that was easily handled. These men – including Chow himself – were experienced torturers, too good at their job to accidentally slice into a kidney. Hell, if they could keep an already battered kid like Murdock alive for as long as they had, they'd have no trouble with me.

Going limp was the easiest way to endure the pain, but the problem with _that_ was that going limp doubled the weight on my wrists. Stiffening every muscle helped with the downward drag, but that made the pain of the interrogation worse...which was probably the reason for my being dangled like this instead of just tied to a chair, now that I thought about it.

I couldn't help squirming a little. Blood was seeping out of my scalpel cuts and trickling down my skin and the itching was driving me crazy, like wet hair dripping down your neck after a shower.

"You know, Smith, you can stop this any time you like. All I want is one answer. Just one."

_'One' meaning 'one more'_, I thought but didn't have the strength to say. That's something else they don't tell you about being a senior officer; you have no right to break until you've lasted longer than every man under your command, and even then, only maybe.

Besides, it takes a hell of a lot more than a couple dozen cigar burns, a few slashes and assorted punches here and there to break me.

I opened my mouth, paused, then closed it again and looked at him mockingly. "I forgot the question."

He backhanded me across the face, hard. He was wearing a ring of some kind on his index finger – unusual in a soldier – and the metal tore through my lip. Blood spurted through, filling my mouth, dripping onto the floor.

"Does that help you remember?" Chow's voice was soft, silky.

I took a long, deep breath.

"We have...reinforcements coming in...from..." I broke off.

"Yes?" Now Chow was encouraging, everyone's friend again.

I coughed, spat more blood onto the floor, and looked up at him. "From the land of Honah-Lee, you goddamned little prick."

I really don't think he got _that_ reference, but he understood the insult well enough, and the general meaning of what I was saying. And he also understood something else; namely that he was wasting his time with me.

He punched me again, this time in the gut, and I vomited. I couldn't help it and to be honest, I didn't really try. My only regret was that Chow had stepped out of the way too fast for any of it to land on him.

"Get this filthy American out of my sight."

One of the torturers cut me down and I dropped like a stone, my legs buckling under me. Pain screamed down my cramped shoulder muscles as the other guard seized my arms and wrenched them down, twisting them up behind my back and half shoving, half dragging me toward the exit.

I didn't have the strength to fight, or even the inclination. Face it; when you're being hauled _away _from a torture room, the last thing you're going to do is try and get back there, and I was in no shape to pull a stunt like going after Chow or Angel, much as I wanted to.

They yanked the outside door open and kicked me through it. At some point during my little interview with Chow and his goons, the sun had risen. The light blinded me and I collapsed on the ground, groaning, and got a parting kick in the ribs for my troubles.

For a moment I lay there, very still. The worst seemed to be over. There didn't seem to be any more guards coming over to take an idle swipe at me. It was probably safe to move.

The only problem was, my body didn't want to.

"Colonel!" The voice echoed in my ears, seeming to come from a long way off. I think I actually grayed out for a minute or two, because the next thing I can remember with any clarity is being propped up against one of the barracks (my mind was too foggy to recognise which one) with Murdock and Tennon on one side and BA on the other.

"_Hannibal_!" The voice was right in my ear and I winced.

"Ah, jeez, will ya stop _yellin'_ at him, big guy! He's got enough of a headache as it is." Murdock's voice was exasperated, telling me that BA had probably been shouting my name for quite a while now. "Tennon, pass me that water. Y'know, Colonel, we really gotta stop meetin' like this."

I managed a grin, then winced as my split lip reopened. My injured shoulder was pounding so hard that the pain was reverberating in my skull. I could still move that arm, but it felt loose, hot.

"How have things been?"

Murdock raised his eyebrows. "Normal. You ain't been gone long enough for everything ta fall apart."

I half turned my head to look at him. "How long..."

"Well, it's kinda hard ta tell, since we ain't got watches, but...I think about an hour. Maybe an hour an' a half."

"That's all?"

Murdock's smile was grim. "Seems longer, don't it? Whoa, whoa, whoa, no you don't—" this in response to my attempting to get up— "you jus' sit still now until you got some water inside ya."

"Murdock—"

"Nope. An' don't you try an' pull rank on me either 'cause I ain't listenin'."

"Did you really work for the CIA?"

His light expression froze for about half a second. It was barely noticeable – at least, not unless you were watching for it – but it was there, and then it was gone and he was grinning.

"Aw, Colonel, do I look like a secret agent?"

I managed an answering grin. "No. That's sorta the point, isn't it? So did you?"

Seeing that I wasn't about to be put off, Murdock looked away, lips tight.

"Yeah, I did. They tried ta get me doin' one or two things I ain't exactly proud of, an' so I quit. Okay?"

"Okay." I'd been around long enough to know when to let a matter drop and so I took the cup Murdock was holding out to me – I wasn't so badly battered that I couldn't drink for myself – and sipped at the water.

"Whose is this?"

Tennon shifted his weight. "Allen's, sir."

"Hannibal. You better give him whatever's in mine, then; I don't want him passing out with dehydration."

Murdock shook his head. "Allen ain't gonna be needin' it for a while."

I stared at him. I hadn't seen much of Allen, but I couldn't help feeling a certain interest in him; he was the first guy I'd met here, after all.

"What happened to him?"

"Well, y'know, Colonel, it was the darnedest thing," Murdock answered, apparently to the sky. "He was jus' standin' around outside, mindin' his own business, when all of a sudden this big bowl a fish come spinnin' through the air an' whonked him on the back a the head. Knocked him out cold."

Oops. I cringed and made a mental note to apologise to the corporal as soon as he regained consciousness.

"The chicken and rice didn't hit anyone, did it?"

"Nope. An' we saved ya some." Murdock held out the tin bowl I'd taken off Angel and I saw it was half full with fish, chicken and rice, a bread roll balanced on the top, representing about three days' worth of food. I wasn't surprised to see they'd managed to hold onto it; the guards weren't stupid enough to try and grab it. It's one thing to grab a man and haul him into a building...it's quite another to take food away from sixty-odd starving soldiers. Whatever else the camp guards may have been, they weren't suicidal.

"What'd you do with the salt? And the bowls?"

Murdock leaned back against the barracks and held up fingers as he listed the items. His other wrist was now swollen so badly I was amazed he could move it at all.

"Bowls: one empty an' in the officers' billet, the other smashed; salt: also in the officers' billet; everythin' else: in assorted bellies around the camp. Oh, wait; some a our guys were able ta grab shards a glass from that window you threw the bowls through an' a couple others picked up some nasty lookin' pieces of pottery from that bowl that smashed. I dunno where they stashed 'em. Seemed best not ta ask, if you get my meanin', Colonel."

I nodded. I got it alright. At least this way if Chow yanked us back to demand where our men had hidden those glass shards, Murdock and I wouldn't be able to tell him.

"The bowl in the officers' billet, is it in one piece? Not cracked or damaged in any way?"

"No, why?"

I smiled. Perfect. "Because I want it scrubbed out and looking like it's never been used, Captain, and then I want it filled with water and some of that salt – not _all_, just some – emptied into it."

Murdock opened his mouth to either argue or demand an explanation, then figured it out for himself and an answering grin appeared on his face instead.

Salt water. No good for drinking, but not bad as a disinfectant. It wasn't anywhere near as good as the real thing, of course, but it was better than just water and a whole lot better than nothing.

I have to admit, I was feeling proud of myself. Not only had I fed my men, I'd armed some of them as well and got hold of some crude medical supplies. Pretty good for an hour or so's work.

I ate about half the food before my conscience managed to overpower my stomach and I headed back to the officer's billet. Even if the men _had_ all got some, they were still starving and I still felt a little guilty about stuffing my face in front of them.

Peck was sitting on his cot, back resting against the wall and knees drawn up into his chest. He glanced up at me, saw I wasn't one of the guards, and promptly lost interest in me again.

I settled down on my cot to finish my meal. I had fewer qualms about eating in front of Peck; he hadn't even been here a full twenty four hours yet, and I doubted he'd be feeling the pangs of hunger anywhere near as much as the rest of the men.

"How was the fish, Lieutenant?" I asked him.

Peck looked back at me. "I don't know, sir. I didn't have any."

"Why not?"

I expected him to mention something like allergies, vegetarianism (although that rarely lasts long when you're starving) or that he'd given his share to one of the other men. Instead he shrugged.

"I don't know. I guess there wasn't enough to go around."

That surprised me. I doubted there would have been enough food for all the men to eat their fill, but I'd been certain that Murdock would make sure that everyone got some, including Peck.

I glanced down at what was left in my bowl, then held it out to him. "Well, here. You can finish mine if you want; I'm not sure I can eat any more anyway. Be a shame for it to go to waste."

I didn't expect the kid to fall on my neck with gratitude at this offer, but neither did I expect the cynical smile I got in return.

"Right. Yeah. What've you done, pissed on it?"

I was so taken aback at this that all I could do was stare at him. I'd been accused of several things in the Army, but never that level of malice and never out the blue like that either.

"_No_! Jesus, Peck!" I paused to collect myself, to yank my shock and temper back under some kind of control. "Even if I had, you'd smell it."

"Spat on it, then. Put dirt on it. Or something."

He might have something with the dirt theory – I was sure most of the food had wound up on the ground before being retrieved and stuffed into whatever we could find to use as plates – but to accuse me of deliberately adding dirt before offering him the food...I stared at him.

"What the hell's your problem, Lieutenant?"

Peck shook his head. "I don't _have_ a problem, sir. I just want to be left alone. I don't need any favors from you or anyone."

"I'm not trying to do you favors, kid; I'm trying to take care of you."

Peck's face was a mask. "I can take care of myself, sir."

"Then how'd you wind up here?" It was a low blow and I knew it, but something about this kid was rubbing me up the wrong way, and fast.

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows. "I'm a rookie, Colonel." He stressed my rank ever so slightly. "What's your excuse?"

I opened my mouth for a sharp answer, but at that moment Murdock walked in. Well...hobbled in. It was so perfectly timed that I found myself wondering whether he'd been eavesdropping.

He nodded toward the bowl, eyebrows raised. "Ain'tcha eaten that yet, Colonel?"

I glanced at it, then up at him. "No. I was offering to share it with Peck, since he didn't manage to get any for himself."

"What?" Murdock stared at Peck. "Aw, you shoulda _said_ somethin'! You know, you were sittin' in here an' bein' so quiet I jus' forgot you were there."

Peck took his eyes off me just long enough to fix them on Murdock for a few seconds. "Good."

Murdock limped over and sat down on his cot. "What, you like your own space?"

"Since you ask, yeah." You didn't have to be a psychoanalyst to see that Peck felt he was being double-teamed; it was in every clenched muscle, the tight line of his jaw. I'd seen men facing torture who were more relaxed.

"Aw, jeez, will ya take it easy? I'm gettin' an ulcer jus' _lookin'_ at ya."

Peck's head snapped around and he stared at Murdock with such violent, sudden hatred that I was taken aback.

"_What do you want from me, Murdock_?" It was a snarl. I think if I hadn't been there, he might actually have taken a swing at the captain.

Murdock shrugged, clearly not bothered. "I don't want anythin' from ya, Peck. But we're gonna be spendin' a lotta time in the same camp, so it'd be good if you quit actin' like the world's biggest jerk. We don't gotta be friends, 'cause I ain't sure I like you any more than you like me, but we should at least be able to rub along together."

"You wanna rub along together? Fine. Just...make like I'm not here. Okay? That's all I want. Ignore me."

I raised my voice, never looking away from him, all the time wondering just what the hell had happened to this kid to make him so against the world.

"_Captain_!"

"Colonel?"

I passed the bowl to Murdock. "Since Lieutenant Peck turned down this food, I want you to take it to Corporal Allen. I don't know if he's had any, but I want you to give this to him anyway. Say it's my way of apologising for hitting him with that bowl of fish."

Murdock took the bowl, but hesitated, glancing at Peck. "You sure you—"

"The lieutenant had every chance to accept that food, Captain, and he turned it down. And _I_ just gave you a direct order. Now _move it_!"

For all his altruism, Murdock was smart enough to know when not to argue with a superior officer; he came briefly to attention, then turned and limped out the door.

Wonderful. Now I felt guilty about sending a badly injured man to play waiter.

In the silence that followed, Peck raised cynical eyebrows. "Well, that's just peachy, Colonel. Now neither of us has the food."

I let the next silence stretch out long enough for him to squirm, then spoke. "You know, I don't take kindly to false accusations, Lieutenant."

"Mm. Well, who does?" He got to his feet and I pushed him back onto the cot again, hard.

"Let's get one thing straight here, kid. I don't think I like you. You've got a little too much attitude for my taste, and coming from BA's commanding officer, that's quite something."

Peck curled his lip. "Didn't realise your bread was buttered that side, Colonel."

It must be nice to be BA, I thought, able to slug anyone who pissed you off without a second thought. I've never hit any of my men (at least, not as a cold-blooded punishment or an act of anger; I've slapped one or two hysterics in my time) but that was the closest I ever came to it.

"That was a little uncalled for, don't you think?" was all I said.

Peck stared at me. There was a sullenness in his expression, but not the kind of sullenness that comes with a chewing out. It was the dull hatred of someone expecting a beating, or some other kind of humiliating punishment. In his mind, I was going to punish him anyway, so he may as well do something to deserve it.

"Yeah, well, I'm not here to be liked, sir. Now, _if_ you'll excuse me."

He rolled over, stretched out on his cot and closed his eyes.

"Don't you _dare_ turn your back on me like that, Lieutenant." My voice was very soft, which means I'm about half a second away from going thermonuclear on someone's ass.

"Why?" Peck's voice was icy. "What are you going to do; stick a knife in it? Yeah, well, join the club, Colonel; we got jackets."

I wasn't sure what I could say to that and so I kept quiet. It's not a good idea to judge someone until you know all the facts, and I knew practically none of them. For all I knew, Peck could have just seen his best friend blown to pieces in front of him and be feeling betrayed by the US Army. It wasn't the first time I'd come across that, nor the first time I'd been turned into a convenient target for the hate. I'd even experienced it myself more than once. He might even have been abandoned or betrayed by a senior officer who made it to safety while leaving him to be picked up, interrogated and then transported to this cheery little place. Or he might just be scared and masking it with what he thought was a credible tough guy act. The kid was very young, after all. Of course, I hadn't entirely discounted the possibility of his being an obnoxious little brat either, but even obnoxious little brats deserve a second chance.

It was with all this in mind that I decided the next morning to pretend our earlier conversation had never happened. Besides, Peck's actions might have pissed me off, but they'd also given me the opportunity to solidify my command. Giving Allen half my food by way of apology (turned out he had got some, but never mind) impressed a lot of people, not least of which was Murdock. The fact that the captain had fully accepted me as commanding officer made my life a little easier, at least as far as running the camp went. The men still tended to defer to Murdock rather than me, rarely obeying any order I gave them without glancing at him for the nod, but I could live with that for now.

Murdock and BA were both out when I woke up; the little session with Chow had taken more out of me than I realised. Peck, however, was still there, sitting on his cot. For one crazy moment I wondered if he'd gone to sleep at all. He seemed to radiate this air of..._waiting_. I can't put it any better than that, although Murdock probably could. His whole demeanor said, _Alright. Now what? _I couldn't quite get a handle on him; he didn't seem like career Army to me, and he certainly didn't seem to be especially patriotic.

I got to my feet and his gaze zeroed in on me instantly. There was no wariness or suspicion there; he wasn't watching me because he thought I was going to attack him. He was watching me simply because seeing what I was going to do next was more interesting than staring at a wall.

I jerked my head towards the door. "C'mon kid. You've been in here a little too long. Time I showed you around this luxury resort."

He regarded me for a couple seconds, then pushed himself to his feet. I don't think he had any real interest in being shown around; he just figured it would be less boring than sitting around staring at the walls. Might even be useful. At any rate, it certainly wasn't worth pissing off a senior officer by refusing.

"How're you feeling?" I asked.

Peck gave me a long look, then said, "Great, sir, thank you. I'm booked in for a full body massage this afternoon, then I'm heading to the five star restaurant for dinner followed by a late-night swim. How about you?"

I chuckled. At least this one had managed to retain a sense of humor. Maybe all he'd needed was a day or so to adjust.

But still...yesterday's accusation baffled me. More than that; it unsettled me. Not because I'd done it or had any attention of doing it, but because it forced me to consider the possibility that this new officer might very well have tipped over the edge.

_Then why did he accuse you? Why not Charlie_?

I had no answer. I'd never been the enemy to my own men before (at least, no more than any other senior officer who chews them out for having an untidy billet or lack of discipline. Like _my_ senior officer always told me, if you want to be popular, stand on a street corner and hand out dollar bills).

I started toward D Barracks when I realised I was alone; Peck had stopped to stare at something.

"What is _that_?"

I'd become so accustomed to everything in and around the camp that it took me a few minutes to realise what he was talking about.

"Don't tell me you've never seen a tree before."

The glare I got was immediate and so unexpected that I drew back a little.

"Sure I've seen a tree, Smith!" Abruptly he realised what he'd said and went bright red. "I mean, Colonel – sir! – _damn_!"

"Hannibal's fine," I told him, although I couldn't suppress a grin. I didn't take offence at the kid's reaction; he wasn't the first to get tongue-tied over what to call me. I didn't much mind his snapping at me either; being interrogated by Charlie and hauled off to what everyone called a _death camp_ would put even the most optimistic of people into a funk. Once he learned that the camp commandant wasn't going to rush out and shoot him right that second, he'd relax, settle down. Hell, a lot of the men had been here for at least a couple months.

"Hannibal, then." He stumbled a little over the name. "I meant, what kind of tree is it?"

I thought it was a little odd that he should be so interested in a tree that was five yards outside the camp fence (and I thought it even odder that nobody had had this conversation with him before; rambutans weren't exactly scarce in Vietnam) but I answered him anyway.

"A rambutan. Fruit's edible, but we can't get to it and it's the wrong time of year anyway. It offers a little shade though."

"Oh."

Silence descended. I wouldn't call it exactly awkward, but it lasted a little too long to be comfortable.

"So...why'd you enlist, anyway?" I was making idle conversation, nothing more, but the look Peck gave me was as guarded as the one I'd got off him yesterday.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time, sir."

I smiled, certain I'd solved at least part of the mystery. "I see. You mean it was the Army or jail."

"No!" This time his expression was offended. _Really_ offended, not just putting on an act. "I just..." He broke off. "It doesn't matter now."

"True," I agreed.

Pause. Then, "Why did _you_?"

I raised my eyebrows, although I didn't mind answering. If he was getting curious about me as a person, it meant he was starting to see me _as_ a person, not a threat.

"Well, I was an Army brat."

"You mean you got brainwashed or forced into it by your old man."

I chuckled. It wasn't true, but I'd seen it happen to enough military brats not to take offence. "I did a lot of acting, and my father said if that was what I wanted to do, then fine, but I should at least try to do it with a military pension so I could do the kind of acting jobs I wanted without worrying about where the money was coming from."

"And now you're all set to die in a POW camp just like the rest of us." It wasn't said in a sneering way, but as a fact.

"I wouldn't put too much money on that if I were you, kid. I was in a POW camp in Korea for six months and the men and I made it out."

I'd said this just to make a point, nothing more, but Peck latched onto it feverishly.

"You did? I mean...six months as a colonel in another POW camp? And you survived?"

"Well, I was a first lieutenant back then, but yeah."

I could see him working that one through in his mind: I'd been a first lieutenant and survived. He was a second lieutenant, which wasn't as important in the Army, therefore General Chow probably wouldn't be so interested in him and so he (Peck) might survive as well.

A roach scuttled across our path. Before I had time to really register its presence, Peck's boot heel slammed down on it, crushing and grinding it into a gooey mess.

I didn't blame him for his revulsion. Humans, even those humans who have never seen them, seem to be genetically programmed to hate and kill roaches. It's amazing how fast you adapt, though; I hadn't even been here a week and already I'd become blasé about them scuttling over me as I lay there trying to get some sleep. It wasn't a pleasant experience, but at least roaches, for all their little roach ways and customs, didn't bite or sting.

"You'll get used to them, kid."

Peck shivered. "I'd rather not, sir."

"Hannibal." One day he'd get it. "You may not have a choice. They're all over the place here, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Right." Peck forced a laugh. "Well...I guess if things get really bad around here, we can always eat bugs."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that if things went on like this, we'd probably have to.

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**Okay, so that's it for now. Hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review! XD**


	7. Breaking Down

**Nip: **Okay, okay, one update! XD And thanks; glad you like it

**A. Dreaming:** Thanks. And as requested, here is more ;-)

**wotumba1: **Thanks. And as for the other POV...yes, I've decided ;-)

**maria:** Thanks :-)

**Noutchka:** Thanks XD And you wanted more Murdock; you got him ;-)

* * *

"Colonel?"

The voice was vaguely familiar, and annoying. I decided to ignore it in the hopes that it would go away.

"Sir, please. I have to talk to you."

I growled something under my breath, not sure whether to be pleased that one of the men had decided to come to me instead of Murdock, or pissed that he'd woken me up.

_Well, you wanted to be senior officer, Hannibal_.

That wasn't strictly true, I informed my mind. But although I hadn't _wanted_ it, I couldn't deny that after meeting Sanders, I'd set out to _get_ it.

_Yeah. You set out to get it, and now you've got it, and everything that goes with it. So now get going!_

I opened my eyes, coming face to face with Ferguson.

"Alright. What is it?" I fumbled for a cigar – my body was wailing for nicotine – and glanced into the packet. Two left. Three, including this one. Maybe I should just give in and smoke them all today.

"Allen's sick, Colonel. Real sick."

I stared at him, my blood freezing in my veins, all thoughts of cigars temporarily put on hold.

"Is it what Haines had?"

"I don't think so. It's kinda hard to say. I'm not a medic."

The words _Neither am I, so why the hell are you looking to me for answers_? shot up my throat, and it took a lot of doing to choke them back down again. Ferguson was looking to me for answers because I was senior officer, therefore I was supposed to have them.

"Alright. Allen's in...where?"

"B Barracks."

"Right." I rubbed my temples. "What have you done for him so far?"

Ferguson shrugged. "We moved him over to one corner and nobody's gone near him since he got sick except to pour water down his throat or over his face."

It was a piss-poor solution; whatever Allen had was probably growing in half the men by now, and all any of us could do was hope we passed it onto some of the VC. I think Ferguson knew that too, but he was too reticent to say so.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised I hadn't seen much of Allen since our first meeting. I hadn't gone out of my way to look into the men's barracks; if you're an officer, too much socialising with the ranks makes them uneasy (unless you also happen to be Murdock).

"Alright," I said again. "Give me a minute to wake BA and we'll be right over."

"Uh...sir?"

"That _is_ why you came here, isn't it?"

Ferguson didn't answer, but his eyes darted toward Murdock's empty cot and I realised something: I was the second choice.

"Charlie dragged him away early this morning," I told him. "Does he know that Allen's sick?"

"Yeah, but he doesn't know how bad it is."

"Okay. Well, I'll get BA or Peck to mention it in front of one of the guards."

He stared at me. "_What_? You can't! They'll kill him!"

"Think about it, Private." I put a hard edge into my voice. "Chow wants answers. He's not stupid enough to waste his time trying to prise them out of a man who's too dazed with fever to understand the questions. And on a more practical note, whatever Allen has, Chow won't want to go down with it."

Ferguson opened and closed his mouth several times, then said, "If you're wrong...if something happens to him—"

I rose to my feet, staring at him. "What? You'll what? Murder me like whoever it was murdered Sanders and Davis?" I didn't raise my voice. "It's been tried before, Ferguson, but I'm not an easy man to kill. The entire Korean army couldn't do it, so I don't know what chance you figure you'll have. Now get moving. BA and I'll join you in a few minutes, just as soon as I manage to wake him up."

Waking BA, however, was easier said than done. It always is whenever I urgently need him for something. If he decides he doesn't want to be woken up...well, a bucket of freezing cold water had always done the trick before, but they were a little thin on the ground here, and if we'd had a spare bucket of water, I wouldn't have wasted it like that.

"Sir?" Peck's voice was very small. I don't think he could tell the difference between me being angry and me just shouting at someone.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Uh. I think...maybe I can wake him up, sir. I know a way and...well, it always worked on me. With your permission?"

I glanced around at Peck, who looked like he could do with another twelve hours' sleep, and shrugged. It couldn't hurt, and if it didn't work, at least I'd be no worse off than I was now.

"Be my guest."

If I'd known in advance what he was planning, I would never have given him that permission. As it was, by the time I'd figured out what he was going to do, Peck had leaned over BA and pinched his nostrils shut.

There was a rather crowded ten seconds. As far as I could remember and piece together in my mind that evening, it went something like this: BA sat upright on the cot and took an instinctive swing at Peck, who dodged it, tripped over his own feet and crashed into me, taking us both down. My head hit the edge of the cot, sending a bolt of pain through my skull, and seconds later Peck's elbow collided with my cheekbone and his foot scraped down my thigh. About the only good thing to come of this was the fact that BA was laughing too hard at the sight of us to hit Peck for that little stunt.

Eventually Peck and I managed to disentangle ourselves from each other and stand up again. He hadn't come out of the encounter unhurt either. I wasn't sure which parts of my body had made contact, but his lower lip was already starting to swell.

"It always worked on you? You mean people used to wake you up like that on a regular basis?" I couldn't imagine even the most sadistic NCO in the US Army pulling a stunt like that.

He shook his head. "No sir, just every now and then."

"I see." I didn't, not really, but I had other things to worry about just then and so I turned my attention to BA. "Sergeant, now that you're on your feet, I want you to get moving. We have a sick man out there."

"You think it's what that Haines kid got?" Even as he spoke, he was getting to his feet and heading for the door. Despite what you might think from all his growling and attitude, BA does care about his men.

"Hard to see how it could be anything else."

"Haines, sir?" Peck's voice was very quiet.

"Yeah, he got sick. Died before you showed up." I didn't mention that one of the other soldiers had been responsible. "Unfortunately he probably spread whatever he had around half the camp before he went. BA, let's _move_."

The atmosphere in B Barracks was dark. Allen wasn't as sick as I'd expected from Ferguson's description, but he was sick enough. His face was glistening with sweat, although I wasn't sure how much of that was sickness and how much of that was heat. The barracks got stifling during the day, so stifling it was almost impossible to breathe.

"Alright." Bending down, I lifted up one end of Allen's cot, causing my wrenched shoulder to squeal in protest. "BA, help me get him outside."

BA picked up the other end with one hand and an annoying degree of nonchalance, as though this was hardly worthy of his strength.

"Okay. Follow me." I'd learned my lesson the hard way about letting BA take the lead when we were carrying stuff between us. The last time I'd done it he'd pulled me flat on my face in front of a platoon of new recruits; and given how I'd chewed him out earlier the same morning, I'm still not convinced it was an accident.

It took a little creative maneuvering to get the cot and its occupant outside without turning it sideways, but we managed it in the end. It wasn't that much cooler outdoors, but at least out here the air wasn't stale with sweat and if there was any breeze, Allen would probably get the benefit of it.

Peck, who had been trailing behind us like a lost little satellite throughout all this, mumbled something and I glanced at him.

"What'd you say?"

He cleared his throat. "Just that...well...it'd be better if we put him between two of the buildings, sir. The gap's kinda narrow so if any breeze comes, it's gonna be funneled through the gap and be a little stronger."

I raised my eyebrows, impressed. So there _were_ brains inside that kid's head. That was a relief. I'd started to worry that all the cynicism and distrust Peck carried around inside him might have crowded them out.

"Good thinking, Lieutenant. BA?"

BA grumbled a little, but he helped me move Allen's cot into the area that Peck had suggested. That was alright, though. Grumbling's a part of BA's nature. You could give that guy a hundred dollar bill and he'd grumble about the serial number...right before trotting off to buy something with it for the local day-care center. It's when he maintains a dignified, icy silence that I start to freak out.

I glanced over my shoulder at Peck, but he'd already backed away and was heading for the least overlooked part of camp, known to all of us as Piss Alley. Since I had no interest in seeing him attend to that part of his business, I turned away again, although I couldn't deny that Peck fascinated me. He was either furiously hostile, or so shy and timid it was painful to see him. I had a feeling the hostility was there to cover up the timidity, but I _also_ had the feeling that neither of these was the real Peck, corny as that sounds.

I didn't wonder about him for very long, however, as a pair of Cong guards opened the gate (something you could hear for miles; making the gate stiff and creaky was just another way they made it damn near impossible to escape) and threw Murdock inside. He lay motionless on the ground, so still I couldn't see him breathing.

"Murdock?" I crouched down next to him and very nearly got a punch in the side of the kneecap for the privilege.

"_Get the hell away from me, Hannibal_!" It was a snarl. If he hadn't called me by name, I'd have thought he'd finally snapped under the pressure.

Pressure or not, however, I wasn't going to let Murdock get away with this, not with half the camp looking on.

"Captain, if you are not inside your billet in under two minutes, I will drag you inside myself. Now _move it_!"

He glared at me. He wasn't the only one either; following this order there was now a definite atmosphere in the camp, directed at me. It wasn't serious enough to worry about, though, and so I ignored it. The men didn't like me chewing out Murdock, but even the freshmeats like Gabney and Ferguson knew why I'd done it. I wasn't afraid of any kind of reprisals.

I walked past Murdock into the billet, sat on my cot and waited, counting off seconds in my head. By the time I reached ninety four, Murdock hobbled inside, not looking at me.

"Sit down." I was sure he'd been about to do that anyway, but giving him the order first put me in control.

Murdock obeyed, much to my relief. I wasn't above pushing a soldier down myself, but there's a difference between doing that to a healthy, defiant kid and doing it to a victim of severe torture.

"You ever speak to me like that again in front of the men, Captain, and I'll make you wish you were back with Charlie."

He looked at me for a few seconds, then nodded. "Understood, sir."

"Good." I've never been one for dragging out a punishment and so I let it go at that. "What happened?"

"_Nothin'_ happened!"

"Right." I sighed. I'd admired him for his refusal to dwell on these things when we first met and I still admired him for it, but now I was also starting to get very tired of it. "Nothing happened. Chow just had you dragged into his HQ so you could sit and stare at the walls. Is this some new interrogation technique? He bores you into talking?"

Murdock tightened his lips and didn't answer. Suddenly, looking at him, I knew.

"Murdock, what did you tell them?"

"I didn't tell 'em _nothin_', Colonel!" Murdock answered, but in the tone of one who doth protest too much.

"_Listen_ to me." I took hold of his shoulders. "Nobody's gonna blame you, son, least of all me. What did you tell them?"

For the first – and as it turned out, only – time, Murdock glared at me and let rip with a string of insults and profanity. I'd heard it all before (except the one about my mother being a tapeworm with halitosis; that was pretty original) but I'd never expected to hear words like those coming out of Murdock's mouth, and I'd really never expected to hear him direct it at me. I recognised it as a diversionary tactic – if I was chewing him out for verbal abuse, I wasn't asking about what happened in there – but it was still something of a shock.

I waited until he'd flung his final insult at my head, then said calmly, "Alright. What else did you tell 'em?"

Murdock stared at me for a few minutes, then knocked one of my hands aside. With his bad wrist, he wasn't able to do anything about the other, though, so I managed to keep hold of him.

"Nothin'!"

I took his other shoulder again, ignoring his attempts to duck free. "Don't you get it, Murdock? This is exactly what they want. You feeling guilty about breaking—"

"_I didn't break_! I didn't!"

"—and it's tearing you up inside, making you feel so bad that you'll break easier next time."

Murdock attempted to bring his knee up into my groin, but his other leg buckled under his weight and he tumbled sideways, falling onto his injured wrist. The pain shattered his mask and for a split second, he looked like what he was; a terrified, bitterly ashamed kid who had broken himself with his own crippling ideas of honor and duty. The problem wasn't that he was out of his depth or that he was a bad officer; the problem was that he was trying to be an infallible one. He wasn't the first – I'd been determined to be the perfect officer the instant I graduated West Point – and he wouldn't be the last either, but he hadn't had my advantages; namely a CO to smack him upside the head and remind him that he was only human.

"Murdock, listen to me." I sat down next to him, holding him in place when he started to move away from me. "No, listen. I have to know what you said. If it concerns any of the other men in this camp, if they could be next on Chow's hit list, then _they_ have to know. Secrets aren't good things to have around here."

"Hannibal, _how many times_ do I hafta _tell_ ya! _I did not break_!"

But he had, and I could see it in his eyes.

"You and I both know that's not true. Murdock, I'm not going to judge you. It wasn't your fault."

He tried to shoot to his feet, but the overall effect was slightly spoiled when his bad leg gave way again and he fell, this time into my lap.

"Alright." I helped sit him more or less upright again. I was sure I could win any battle of wills between us, but I was less sure that I could do so without turning Murdock into an enemy. "Well, if you won't tell me what happened, then let me take a look at your leg."

"Ain't nothin' you can do for it, Colonel. It's jus' a sprain."

I rolled my eyes. "You know, Murdock, I think you might possibly have mistaken that for a request."

Murdock turned his head away sullenly. I could understand that, although I didn't much like it. He'd broken, so in his mind, he didn't deserve medical treatment. Didn't deserve anything except punishment and a good old-fashioned chewing out.

I wasn't planning to oblige him on either score, however. I've never blamed a man for breaking down under torture, and even if I had, I was sure that Murdock was pouring far more abuse and scorn on his own head right now than I could have managed. Given the huge amount of pressure he'd been under in this place, I wasn't surprised he'd broken so much as astonished he'd managed to hold out as long as he did.

"I gave you a direct order, Captain. Show me!"

Murdock gave me a look that was pure, smoldering hatred for my refusal to take off and leave him to hate himself in peace, then lifted his leg up with his one good hand and dumped it on my lap.

"Fine." He bit the word off at the end. "Look, then."

I did. Murdock had been right; it was a nasty looking sprain and the ankle was already swollen.

"Alright. Give me a minute; I'll strap it up."

"Don't bother." He started to move his leg away. I put a hand on his shin and he jerked back, hissing in pain.

"There too, huh?"

"It's nothin'."

I sighed. "Captain, your feelings of guilt over having broken—"

"Stop _sayin' _that!"

"No." I meant it as well. I thought Murdock was right to hide the fact from the men, at least for now, but I wasn't going to let him hide it from me. The more often I said it, the more accustomed he'd become to the reality and the less ashamed he'd be...hopefully. "Everyone has their limit, Murdock. Okay, so you reached yours. I don't think there are many men in this camp who haven't."

"Except you."

I let my head rock back against the wall of the billet with a groan. "_Murdock_, for crying out loud, I've only had about an hour with them! You can't compare everything you've been through with that."

"Yeah, well. Y'know, I _coulda_ held out. If I hadn't had such a damn headache."

"I know, Captain. I know. Now get your pants off."

Murdock gawked at me, for a moment looking much younger than his twenty five years. "Say _what_?"

"There's something wrong with your shin. I want to take a look at it."

He swallowed. "Can't I just roll up my pants cuff instead?"

I grinned broadly. "Course you can, Murdock. I just wanted to be sure I had your full, undivided attention."

"Colonel..."

My grin widened. "Something you want to say to me, Captain?"

"Plenty, but nothin' that won't get me a court martial so I think I'm gonna keep it zipped." I could see a small glint of humor in his eyes, though; at least he could see the funny side of the situation.

I laughed. "Smart move. Now roll up the cuff and let me see."

He obeyed, and I saw the vicious, ugly bruising on his shin. "What was it this time?"

"Hammer."

I stared at him. I don't know why I was shocked – in the Korean POW camp I'd seen men with their legs sawed off by rusty hacksaws, or with maggot-infested holes bored clean through their feet – but I was.

"How the _hell_ did you get from there to here with that?"

"Limped. An' hopped some."

I kept staring. "Right. Well, it's probably broken, and if I see you doing any more _limping and hopping some_, I'll order BA to hold you down on your cot. He likes sitting on officers."

Murdock glared at me but didn't say anything.

"If you think I'm bluffing, Captain, you just try me. Did you tell Charlie anything to do with any of the men in this camp?"

Murdock darted a quick look at my hand – which was about two inches away from his broken shin – and answered reluctantly, "No."

I believed he was telling the truth, but even with everything he'd been through, I was still a little insulted that he thought I might decide to torture the answer out of him.

"Then what did you tell them?"

"_Nothin_'."

"Uh huh." I could sense him weakening and so I pressed a little harder. "I thought you said you were gonna trust me."

"I do trust ya. That don't mean I wanna tell ya everythin' that goes on with me."

I sighed. We were going around and around in circles and I could almost sympathise with the VC's frustration.

"Murdock, _tell _me what you said to them and that's a goddamn order!"

He bit his lip, looking away. "I gave 'em a name, okay? They wanted ta know who was behind the September air raid on one a their Army bases, an' I told 'em."

"Alright. Then tell me. Who was it?"

Murdock shook his head. "Aw, it don't matter, Colonel."

"It does if he's next on their hit list."

"Well, we ain't exactly in a position ta _warn_ nobody here. An' anyway, the guy's dead. He died 'bout two months back."

I stared at him for a few moments. "Okay, so now you're _officially_ making mountains out of molehills. You're beating yourself up because you gave them a name that they can't do anything with? Because you gave them one tiny piece of information that no longer matters?"

"That ain't the point. So what if it don't matter this time? What about the next time? They got me down once, they're gonna try twice as hard ta do it the next time. An' _you_ didn't help none!"

I frowned, baffled. "What do you mean, I didn't help? What did you expect me to do, Murdock; whip up a posse and storm the commandant's HQ?"

"I expected you ta keep _my_ name outta things when they were talkin' ta you! But no, you _had_ ta go in all heavy handed an' demand that they leave me alone! An' ya didn't stop ta think that _maybe_, jus' _maybe_ they'd think you were doin' it 'cause I knew somethin' ya didn't want those jerks in there findin' out about?"

I was silent. He was right, of course. I'd been riding high on my own success following my trick with the food and the salt and hadn't stopped to think about what I was saying.

"Murdock, I—"

"Aw, shoot, Colonel, I...yeah, I know ya _meant_ well." I was starting to worry about Murdock; he was growing paler by the minute. "An' I know ya probably didn't realise what you were doin', but even if they _didn't _think you were jus' protectin' military secrets, you were still kinda rude to 'em after ya asked 'em ta leave me in peace. I mean, did it _never_ cross your mind that they might decide ta come after me ta get to _you_?"

It had, that time I'd seen the guard beating up on him and done nothing to interfere, but like an idiot I hadn't bothered carrying that thought into interrogation with me.

"What do you want from me, Murdock? Do you want me to admit that I'm not perfect, that I screw up sometimes?"

"No; I wantcha ta take off, Colonel." He was completely white now.

"Murdock—"

"Hannibal, _please_." There was a slight catch in Murdock's voice. "Ain't nothin' personal ta you, but my head is poundin' fit ta kill me an' right now all I wanna do is curl up into a tiny little ball on my cot an' whimper until the pain goes away. Okay?"

"Murdock, you're a pretty popular guy in this camp. If I walk out that door, half the men are going to crowd into it to see if you're still alive. You want them to see you like this?"

He didn't answer. I wasn't sure if he could.

"Alright." I softened my voice a little. "Curl up if it makes you feel better. Try and get some rest, Captain."

Still no answer. Again, I didn't think he was capable of one anymore; he was either asleep or, given the speed with which he'd gone, passed out. Unconsciousness wasn't exactly the kind of rest I'd had in mind for him, but it was better than nothing.

I stuck my head out the door. "BA!"

BA glanced over at me. "What?"

"Get in here!"

Something in my voice or face must have convinced him I meant it; he broke off his conversation with Young and strode over.

"This better be important, Hannibal!"

"Inside." I grabbed him by the arm (which took two hands) and pulled him into the tiny billet.

"Get your hands off my arm, fool! What is all this?"

"This." I pointed to Murdock's body, lying motionless on the cot, and BA froze. The captain seemed to have earned his liking, or at least his tolerance – and when he regained consciousness I'd have to ask him just how he'd managed that small miracle – and I could tell BA was concerned.

"What happened to him?"

"Too many things to list, but we can start with excessive blood loss, mental and physical exhaustion and severe dehydration. Look." I reached out and gently pinched a fold of skin on Murdock's wasted hand. It settled back into position very slowly. _Too_ slowly.

"So what you bring me in here for? Man, I ain't no medic!"

"I brought you in here, Sergeant, because I'm going to try and get some extra water for Murdock, and if he wakes up, the first thing he's going to do is try and walk out to check on the men. He's in no fit state to go anywhere but that's not going to stop him. I want you to keep him here. Hold him down if you have to, but do _not_ let him leave this billet unless it either catches fire or collapses."

"You got it, Hannibal." BA sat down on my cot, which – following Peck's arrival – had been pushed so close to Murdock's in the tiny space that it was virtually a double bed. It wasn't unusual for me to be woken up in the middle of the night by a foot in my back, or an elbow in my ear.

Satisfied, I walked out of our billet and into A-Barracks, and caused a small pile-up as each physically capable soldier tried to scramble to attention at the same time. Given there were about twenty five of them in a billet built for sixteen, and that didn't include the sick ones, I thought it best to call a halt to the proceedings before we all ended up in a tangled ball of arms and legs that would take even the VC several hours to unravel.

"At ease." I waited until the room was relatively still again before speaking. "I think you men have a right to know that Captain Murdock passed out earlier this morning. Despite everything I've been able to do for him, he still hasn't regained consciousness."

There was a sudden drop in the atmosphere.

"Permission to speak, sir?" Barrett's voice was quiet.

"Go ahead, Corporal."

Barrett shifted his weight. "He _is_ still alive, isn't he?"

"Yes." I wasn't too sure how Murdock was accomplishing this minor miracle, but something inside him refused point blank to quit. "He's still alive, but he's lost a lot of blood, and a lot of fluid. He needs water, and plenty of it." I let that sink in for a few moments, then added, "This is _not_ an order; it's a piece of information. And I'm not Sanders, which means you're not gonna be punished, chewed out or glared at for deciding not to act upon it."

Young started toward the door. "I'm going to check on him."

I'd been expecting that and I stepped in his way. "No you're not. You're not a medic and he doesn't need half the camp crowding around him; he needs a little peace and quiet to rest. But I'll let you all know when he wakes up." I glanced around at the rest of the men. "And that brings me onto my next point. I meant to mention it after Sanders' death, but it slipped my mind." That was a lie thought up on the spur of the moment; I didn't want anyone here linking what I was about to say with Murdock's condition and putting two and two together. "I know some of you have broken and said things besides name, rank, service number and date of birth. Well, I didn't come here to play the blame game. I came here firstly to keep you informed about Murdock, and secondly because I want to know exactly who reached breaking point, and what was said. I'm not interested in chewing people out, but all the time you're feeling guilty about betraying secrets, you'll be easier for them to break a second time. Nobody – least of all me – will blame you, and what you say will never be repeated once we get out of here."

None of them spoke, although I noticed a few of them avoiding my eyes. Well, that was fine. I hadn't exactly expected a stampede and I left them to their thoughts, heading back to my own cramped billet, where Murdock was about half-awake.

"How're you feeling, Murdock?"

His voice was very hoarse. "You didn't hafta sic the big guy on me, Colonel. I wasn't goin' nowhere, not in this shape."

"Murdock, Chow could cut off your legs at the knee and you'd still insist on dragging yourself out on your hands to check on your men."

Murdock gave me a long look. "Don't you even _joke_ about that, Hannibal."

He was right. With a sadist like Chow at the helm, dismemberment was a frighteningly real possibility. If Murdock wasn't the first to suffer it, I was willing to bet that he'd be the second.

"Alright. Here." I passed him a cup of water. The men had been pretty generous and there were five more full cups down by my feet.

"What..."

"The men chipped in some of their rations, and I am _not_ letting you out of that cot until you have drunk all of it down and _kept_ it down. And if you think you can out-stubborn me, Captain, don't even try." I paused. "Does your head still hurt?"

"No." His voice was very quiet, lips barely moving. If Charlie had come in and beaten him to death, I don't think Murdock would have been able to twitch, much less defend himself. "Hannibal...I gotta get up."

I held him down. "I said _no_, Murdock."

"No, I mean...sit up. My back..." He gritted his teeth. "Colonel..._please_."

I considered. Sitting up probably wouldn't do him much damage, and he couldn't very well drink lying flat.

"Alright. Alright, c'mon." I slid an arm under his back and he sucked in his breath sharply, his entire body jerking away from me.

I stared at the blood on my hand, the blood on the cot and then reached down to lift Murdock's t-shirt and get a closer look. I didn't bother asking his permission; he was too dazed with pain to understand.

"_Hannibal_..." It was the closest he could get to protesting in his state.

"Captain, I can't let these injuries get infected. Can I?"

"_No_." He wasn't agreeing with me; he was refusing permission.

I sighed. "Murdock..."

I didn't think I said it all that loudly, but Murdock still winced, bringing his left hand up to his temple.

"Ah, _jeez, _Colonel!"

"Sorry." I lowered my voice. "C'mon. Try and sit upright."

He just about managed that, clinging to my arm for support with his good hand and making my injured shoulder yelp in protest. He was too malnourished to be very heavy, but he was still heavy enough to pull on the torn muscles.

His t-shirt was hanging in tatters off his shoulders. I didn't try to lift it a second time; it was easier just to rip it in two at the collar and peel it off Murdock's body, revealing the injuries underneath.

Even BA was appalled. "Man, Captain, your back looks like a slab a raw meat! Makes me think someone oughta fry you with onions and garlic."

I closed my eyes. I'm as much in favor of honesty as the next man, but there's a time and a place.

"_BA_!"

Murdock turned to grin at him, or tried to. The end result was more like a death grimace.

"Well, when they do, I get the shoulder."

"Murdock..."

"Aw, Hannibal. If I can survive 'em doin' it to me, I'm sure I can handle hearin' ya talk about it."

"Yeah, but there are ways and means of talking about something." This was aimed more at BA, who looked away. "I'll get some of that salt water on it in a minute, and if you even _think_ of telling me otherwise, Murdock, I'll empty the entire dish over your head. If you don't believe me, ask BA."

Murdock shook his head. "Nah. You're bluffin'. You ain't gonna pour away our only supply of disinfectant just ta prove a point. Those guys out there are our responsibility, Colonel."

"And – as I'm tired of telling you, Captain – _you_ are _mine_. Do you really think that you're the only officer in the US Army who cares about his men?"

Murdock snorted. "Aw, Colonel. With such selfless, noble officers as Sanders an' Angel 'round these parts, how could I possibly think that?"

"Sanders is gone."

"Angel ain't."

That was true, although Angel was spending most of his time at Chow's HQ now, for his own safety.

"An' on the subject of carin' for men, Hannibal, what's Allen doin' sleepin' outside?"

I raised my eyebrows. "He's sick, in case you didn't notice."

Murdock rolled his eyes. "Well, sure I noticed, Colonel. I toldja Barrett was worried 'bout Allen, didn't I?"

He had, now that I thought about it. I just hadn't stopped to ask why; at the time, my priority had been getting him back to the billet for some much needed rest and recovery.

_And speaking of recovery..._I dipped a scrap of cloth in some of the salt water I'd managed to acquire a couple days ago and soaked his back with the stuff, causing him to wince away from me.

"C'mon, soldier. What happened to that old fightin' spirit?"

Murdock managed a small grin. "It went an' filed for compassionate leave of absence in Hawaii, Colonel, an' right now I wish it'ud taken me along too."

I grinned back. That was one of the things I liked about Murdock; he could make the most outlandish answers sound perfectly reasonable. "Yeah. I wish it had taken all of us. In the meantime, you're just going to have to hold still."

"Alright, but you still ain't told me what dumpin' Allen outside is gonna achieve."

I glanced at BA. "It'll make it easier on him, and buy me some time to figure out a long-term solution."

Peck spoke up, but reluctantly. "Why didn't you just quarantine him?"

"Too late. I can't leave Allen inside and move all the men in B Barracks into other billets; there isn't enough room, and overcrowding will cause far more problems than it solves." I met Murdock's gaze and he nodded very slightly, understanding. There was nothing we could do for Allen. Either he'd shake this off on his own, or he wouldn't. Right now, I was more concerned with preventing an epidemic, and uncomfortably aware that trying to accomplish this in a POW camp was like pissing in the wind.

"But—" Peck— "Allen could've been carrying this around for days. He could have infected half the camp already, and that half could have infected the other half. What's sending him to one part of the camp gonna do besides buy you some time?"

"From Allen's point of view? Nothing, although I think he'll be a little more comfortable outside than in. From the men's point of view?" I shrugged. "It might buy them a day. Two at most. What matters is that these men look to me, and Murdock – yes, and you as well, or they will if something happens to us – to make decisions, to have all the answers. If you went to your commanding officer and said, _Sir, we have a problem, what are we supposed to do about it_, and your commanding officer turned round and said, _I don't have a damn clue_...can you imagine what that would do to morale?"

Peck rolled his eyes. "Uh huh. Right, Colonel. Because morale in a POW camp is _always _sky-high."

"We can't make it worse. The men have enough to deal with as it is. Knowing there's someone in charge helps ease the pressure on them a little."

"Great." Peck slumped moodily onto his cot. "Well, I got another question for you, Colonel. Who the hell's supposed to ease the pressure on _us_?"

I shrugged. "We ease it for each other. BA, Murdock, me, you—"

"_I'm not a part of your little group_!" There it was again, the sudden anger, and I'd had just about enough of it.

"I don't give a damn _what_ you are or what you want, Lieutenant! You're not the first to crack—"

Peck laughed, a hard sound that had no trace of humor. "You still don't get it, do you? I haven't cracked! What are you saying, that anyone who doesn't want to be a part of your little gang, who doesn't want to worship and kiss up to the great Lieutenant-Colonel Hannibal Smith _must_ have lost their mind? I don't give a damn about you, Smith. _Any _of you! As far as I'm concerned, you can go to hell and take Murdock with you!"

There was a ringing silence, not just from us but from outside the billet as well. Peck hadn't bothered to keep his voice down much below a shout and I was sure most of the men had heard that little diatribe.

When I was sure he'd finished, I opened my mouth – I wasn't sure what I was going to say – but Murdock got there first, twisting around on his cot to look at Peck with a kind of quiet pity.

"Boy oh boy oh boy oh boy. Been a real long time since anyone treated _you_ like a human bein', ain't it?"

I closed my mouth again, mostly because Murdock's words had hit home far faster and far harder than anything I could have said. Peck opened and closed his mouth several times, looking like a man struggling for oxygen. I don't think he knew how to handle people like me and Murdock, people who just would _not_ be driven away by his attitude. I'm sure he would have been happier if one of us had yelled back at him.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Peck's voice was tight, but it was also now too quiet to be heard by anyone outside and so I didn't bother shutting him up. "We're all going to die in here. You'll be next, Murdock. You know, they don't call these places _death camps _just because it sounds cool."

I started to tell him that nobody was going to die in this place, but I'm not a good enough liar and the words wouldn't come. Peck was right; they weren't called _death camps _for nothing, and for all my reassuring words, there was no way I could guarantee the safety of any of the men here, including myself.

He was wrong about Murdock being the next to go, though. The torturers were too damn good at their job. Barring accidents or illness, Murdock wouldn't die until they let him. His back wasn't as bad as BA had claimed; it just looked a lot worse because the blood had run down enough to turn it red. Hell, the VC might even give the pilot extra food to keep him alive, and if he refused to eat it they'd probably ram it down his throat with a stick.

There was an awkward silence, one that I was left to break.

"Tell me about yourself, Murdock." It was quite a random thing to come out with, and I knew it, but silence wasn't always a good thing and if I could get his mind away from here, back to happier times (at least, I hoped they'd been happy; otherwise I was about to open a can of worms that no power on Earth could shut again)...if I could get him focused on something other than this, I could probably talk him out of his funk at having 'broken', as he saw it.

He looked surprised at that, but not alarmed. "Alright. What d'ya wanna know?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Anything, I guess. I'd like to know why you left the CIA, but I'm not going to push on that."

"Oh, that." Murdock leaned back against the wall, then winced and sat upright. With cracked ribs, a broken leg and a back that was beaten raw, it was impossible for the poor kid to find a position that didn't hurt. "Man, I never wanted ta be a spook. I enlisted in LA an' got sent straight ta OCS, where the CIA picked me out 'cause I got a great memory an' a talent for languages."

"How many languages do you speak?" That was Peck, much to my surprise. I didn't think he was listening. What was even more surprising (at least to my mind) was that there was no mockery in his tone, just curiosity. I hadn't yet figured out what it was that drew him to Murdock; I was just glad there was one of us that Peck seemed to like.

"Includin' English?"

The lieutenant shrugged. "Sure."

Murdock actually had to think about this for a few minutes. "Eight."

Peck's water sprayed across the room, something I would have found funny if it hadn't hit me.

"_How many_?"

"Well, I ain't all that good at Russian, so I guess the real answer'd be more like seven an' a bit."

That was still about six more than me. The only foreign language I could speak with any real competency was Spanish, and that had been learned in high school.

"What are they?"

"French, Spanish, German, Vietnamese, Japanese—"

"_Japanese_?" Peck's eyes bugged out on stalks.

Murdock grinned. "My best friend from first grade until graduation was Japanese. None a the other kids wanted ta be his friend 'cause he was different, an' I was the new kid from outta state, so we kinda wound up together. I used ta go around his house all the time, only his folks couldn't speak much English an' so I jus' kinda picked up Japanese as a second language. I also speak Mandarin Chinese an' Russian, but like I said, I ain't much good at that last one. The CIA were trainin' me up on it, but I walked before they got the chance."

I raised my eyebrows. "Yeah, what happened with that?"

"They taught us interrogation techniques. Y'know...Good-Cop, Bad-Cop, psychological ways to break a person. One time, after I been workin' for 'em a couple months, I went with my superior into a room an' there was this other guy there I never seen before. He was scared. _Real_ scared. I asked if this was another trainin' exercise an' got told that no, I'd moved on from that an' I was ready to get some experience in the real thing." Murdock shook his head. "I dunno. Maybe I was oversensitive but...it was jus' somethin' about the way he said it. I remember lookin' at that guy an' thinkin', he probably had a family somewhere. An' they were gettin' ready ta turn his mind inside-out an' break him down emotionally, jus' for the sake a some answers."

I could believe him. I'd never worked for the CIA (although they weren't the only ones to go in for interrogation, not by a long road) but I thought it must have been like boot camp. You know you'll be going into combat, you know they're training you to kill...but you can't quite believe it'll really come to that. It's all fun and games until someone gets his brains blown out.

"What did you do?"

That got a real grin out of him. "Well...see, there was a cup full a water from a kettle. Someone'ud already been at this guy with it, so it wasn't exactly boilin', but it was hot enough to burn. I picked it up, turned around an' threw it in the other agent's face. Then I jus' looked at him an' said, _I quit_."

I cleared my throat as delicately as I could. "Did you ever interrogate anybody?"

He shrugged. "Ah, Colonel, I don't rightly know an' that's the truth. There were always trainin' exercises, simulation, roleplay, that kinda thing, but I can't swear that they didn't slip one or two real targets in there."

I wouldn't have put it past the CIA to do just that, but I didn't say it. Instead I said, "I'm a little surprised you didn't go on the missing list after that."

Murdock shrugged again. "Maybe I woulda done, if I hadn't transferred straight into the Army. Plus I enlisted as a chopper pilot."

That was a good point. The life expectancy of helicopter pilots in the US Army in a war isn't as long as people might think.

"What'd your folks say to that?"

Murdock grinned. "Kinda hard ta say, Colonel, since my old man hung around jus' long enough ta give me a name before goin' west, an' my mom..." The grin changed a little. "Well, she got killed in a car accident when I was five, so I went ta live with my grandparents an' both of them died before I enlisted."

"And you don't have a girlfriend?" I was teasing him a little now. Murdock wasn't a knockout like Peck, but he wasn't ugly either.

Murdock grew very still. "I...did."

Peck, who didn't seem to be spiteful so much as tactless, raised his eyebrows. "What happened? She ditch you?"

Murdock turned a hard stare on him. "She killed herself. Smart-ass your way outta that one, Lieutenant."

The kid looked stricken, even guilty for a moment, then he pulled that mask over his face and it was gone. I think he was planning some smart-ass remark (if he wanted to drive a wedge between himself and us, sneering at Murdock's girlfriend's suicide would be a sure-fire way to do that) and I kicked him on the ankle.

Peck jumped like someone had jabbed a cattle prod up his ass, then turned a shocked look on me. Again, it was gone almost as soon as it arrived, but it was there.

And there had been something on Murdock's face at Peck's words as well, something that looked very much like active dislike. I doubted it would last – Murdock was smart enough to admit that Peck couldn't possibly have known, and the lieutenant's theory hadn't been so far-fetched (if he hadn't suggested it, I would have) – but it had been real and it had been there. And I was glad to see it. It made him seem more human, something more and/or less than the Perfect Officer.

In an effort to defuse things a little, I raised my eyebrows. "Murdock, is there anyone in America you've lived with, been raised by, kissed, cuddled or even just said _hi_ to that's still alive?"

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wondered if _I'd_ gone a little too far. Murdock gave me a sharp look, then managed a laugh.

"Well, couple uncles, but we ain't spoken since I was about six. They're jerks." Murdock said this simply, with no real bitterness. He might as well have been telling me they had brown hair.

I glanced at Peck. "How about you?"

"No. No uncles. No aunts either."

Murdock gave a dramatic groan. "Oh man. Some guys get all the luck!"

Peck shifted his weight. "I don't think I've ever been called _lucky _before."

"Oh sure y'are. You never had any uncles ta be mean to ya, or any aunts ta make sugary sweet comments about how _big_ you are now, an' how's school, an' oh, you _must_ come an' give 'em a great big kiss."

Peck listened to this with the slightly glazed expression of a man hearing something in a foreign language, but I grinned. I had an aunt like that myself, and I still got the 'how _big_ you've gotten' and 'come and give your aunty a great big kiss' routine every time I saw her, even though I was almost forty.

Murdock continued. "An' then ya get chosen from hundreds a thousands – if not millions – of US soldiers ta be kept here an' housed an' fed at the VC's expense."

Peck stared at Murdock for a long time, trying to work out whether or not the captain was serious, then a grin appeared on his face. It was a rather stiff grin, as though he'd forgotten how to do it (or maybe just never learned) but it was genuine.

"Murdock...you're crazy."

Murdock grinned back, although I saw a sudden flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "In case ya hadn't noticed, this whole place is a little crazy."

"Yeah, no kidding. A place where you can be grabbed and tortured any time, a place where your commanding officer says to call him by his first name—"

"I never said that, Peck." Nicknames were one thing; first names something else entirely.

He looked stunned, like I'd somehow betrayed him. "You did! You said—"

"Hannibal isn't my first name, kid."

This, however, hadn't been for lack of trying on my father's part. He'd wanted to name me Hannibal, but my mother had put her foot down. It didn't really matter, though, since I adopted Hannibal as a nickname at around age five (following my father's bedtime stories of elephants and wars) and most people got into the way of using it. Mom still called me John, but only when she thought of it, and I'd been Hannibal for so long now that I got a strange feeling whenever I received a letter addressed to John Smith, as though I was reading someone else's mail.

Peck's feathers froze mid-ruffle, then settled. "...Oh."

"Yeah, Peck." Murdock gave him a friendly nudge. "How many people d'you know whose real name is Hannibal?"

I glanced at him. "What's _your_ first name, anyway?" Not that I had plans to call him by it; I was just curious.

Murdock gave me a sidelong glance. "HM."

"That's not a name, that's a couple of initials. So...?" I let the sentence trail off invitingly.

He glanced at me. His face was properly serious, until you saw the dance in his eyes. Even tortured half to death, this was a guy who enjoyed teasing people.

"So what, Colonel?"

"What's your first name?"

"HM."

I gave it up, although I couldn't resist baiting him a little in return. "Alright. I can look it up when we get out."

"Sure, Colonel." His tone was a little too demure as I turned to walk away. I guess he thought I'd forget about it by then...either that or he didn't expect to be getting out.

I'd got all of three feet when it hit me like a freight train and I stopped, stunned, then turned back.

"HM! You're...Howlin' Mad Murdock!"

Murdock glanced at me. "Sure am."

How could I have missed it? _How_? Alright, granted Murdock wasn't the most uncommon name, and granted I'd also never met Howlin' Mad Murdock before and so had no idea what he looked like, but still...

There are a few soldiers who might never make the history books, but who seem to take on a kind of mysticism of their own. A medic who never loses a patient, a commander whose plans never fail...and a pilot who can fly anything and never seems to get shot down. Word spreads and unless you meet one – and it's a big Army, although sometimes not big enough – you're never sure whether or not they're real, or as good as everyone says, but they become champions, a kind of constant presence. It's hard to explain...you can't imagine it unless you've been there.

"I thought you were dead." I'd heard that report; Captain HM Murdock, shot down near Hue. Morale had plummeted when that particular piece of news came in.

Murdock grinned. "Aw, Colonel. They jus' say that so's they don't hafta mount some kinda search an' rescue." There was a pause, then he added in a tone that was too neutral to be genuine, "Y'know...I hearda you too, before comin' in here."

I raised my eyebrows. I knew I had a reputation in the Army, but I wasn't sure whether he meant this or was simply being polite. "And what exactly did you hear, Captain?"

He grinned. "Heard you were unorthodox as hell, attemptin' things most guys'ud consider nuts an' pullin' it off mosta the time. An' that you had no respect for rank an' had been known ta snap at generals like a drill sergeant an' take orders from privates."

I glared at him. "That happened _once_, Murdock, and the private was a medic trying to save his friend's life!"

"An' the snappin' at generals?"

"Happened...a little more than once," I admitted.

"Figured it might have. Y'know, Colonel, I always hoped that I'd get ta meetcha one day, but this ain't exactly what I had in mind."

Peck spoke for everyone. "I don't think this place was what any of us had in mind."

I had nothing to say to that.

* * *

**Okay. Based on reviews and the results of the POV poll on my profile, you guys seem to want Face's POV more than Murdock's, so that's the way it's going! This will be quite occasional, though; the majority of chapters are going to be Hannibal's (although having said that, the next chapter is going to be a Face one ;-)) In the meantime, hope you liked this one and if you read, please review!**


	8. Of Names and Nicknames

**louise: **Thanks :-) Yeah, I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised by the movie (barring one or two things ;-))

**Jen:** Of course there is going to be more Face, especially since he's providing one of the POVs on occasion (like now) ;-) Is it going to be pure Hannibal-Face from this moment on? No. No more than it's going to be pure Hannibal-Murdock or pure Face-Murdock or pure Face-BA or pure...well, you get the idea. There will be plenty of Hannibal-Face moments (although how much sense these will make if you just skim past everything else to get to them, I wouldn't like to say ;-)) plenty of Face-Murdock moments and plenty of Hannibal-Murdock moments, and a few Face POV chapters.

However, if you want a story that focuses purely on Hannibal and Face with very little emphasis on other characters, then you'll be happier reading something else :-) (since it says in the summary that this is a 'how the Team first got together and escaped the POW camp', being a full on Team fic goes pretty much without saying ;-)) Bearing in mind what you said, though, I did change the main characters listing, at least for now. At the moment, since Face only showed up a couple chapters ago, of course there hasn't been much on him yet.

**SGreenD: **Thanks XD And yep, there'll be a lot on Face's background (at least my version of it :-)) in this story

**ggmaxwell:** Okay, one update XD How Murdock got on BA's good side...you'll find out. In the next chapter ;-)

**MysticSpectre: **Thanks :-) Most of the chapters will be from Hannibal's POV, but people voted to have the odd look into Face's head as well (scary thought, but who am I to deny the majority? -))

* * *

**FACE**

I was the odd one out. Always, the odd one out.

Well, I mean...that's nothing new for me. I was the weird little kid in kindergarten that none of the others wanted to sit with, then the kid who got picked last for sports and the kid a certain bitch nun in the orphanage had a vendetta against (long story) and the kid who got left on the shelf for the rest of his life.

I guess I can't complain too loudly about that last one though. I mean, it's not like I'm the only orphan in the world who never got adopted. And things did pick up a little when I went to college in New York before circumstances forced me to drop out and enlist. Then – being the only guy in my squad not just from LA, but California – I felt like the odd guy out there as well, although not as much as before.

Now I'd been captured and thrown into a Vietnamese POW camp, and I was the odd one out here too.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those guys who goes around whining that the world isn't fair, that the world owes him a living, that he's just a poor little victim of that same big bad evil world. I knew a lot of my outsider status was my own fault. I'd gone out of my way to make it happen; it's far better to be a jerk than a victim. But I also knew that some of it wasn't.

Part of it was being an officer. The men might listen to me, they might let me sit down and talk to them, but only because I outranked them; they'd never fully relax all the time I was there. Colonel Smith ("_Hannibal_"), Sergeant Baracus ("_BA_") and Captain Murdock were about the only company I could look forward to having in this place, which would probably equate to the rest of my life...and these were _not_ people I really wanted to spend my last hours with.

The other part of it was the fact that a lot of the conversation in this place centered around a guy called Sanders, who had died before I arrived. From what little I managed to glean, I'd had a lucky escape there, but it still didn't change the fact that I felt like something of an outsider. If you've ever sat with people who are talking about somebody you've never met and never _will_ meet, then you'll understand what I mean.

Murdock was okay, I guess. I didn't like his habit of firing verbal barbs through my defenses – that crack about nobody treating me like a human being had hurt big time, and I wasn't even sure why – but I'd had worse.

Anyway, on this particular day, I was busy being an outsider in the tiny room that Hannibal always referred to as the officers' billet. We were lying on our cots, all of us on our sides except Murdock who had decided that the most comfortable position for him was balancing on his stomach over Hannibal's left hip. It didn't look all that comfortable to me (particularly for Hannibal) but the colonel didn't complain and I didn't open my mouth, mostly because I was sure if I asked him about it, he'd just order me to take his place as Murdock's chair.

Things in the camp had been quiet today. We'd heard a couple of the guards talking, and Captain Multilingual (aka Murdock) had translated for us, saying that Chow had been called away on military business for two days. Word had spread around the men and the mood was a little better than it had been before. Even so, there wasn't much else to do besides talk, or play dumb games like Anywhere But Here (some of our imaginary excursions got kinda wild). Murdock had sparked off another of these games, this one called Earliest Memory. As our noble and illustrious commanding officer, Hannibal had the honor of playing first.

"Earliest memory...hmm." Hannibal frowned. "Probably...being taken to the state fair when I was about two. Dad fed me a piece of cotton candy."

"Did they have cotton candy durin' the Depression, Colonel?"

Hannibal gave Murdock a not quite playful swat on the arm. "They did, as it happens. And my father was a full colonel in the Army, so my family didn't feel the pinch as much as most people." He shook his head. "Mom always blamed my sweet tooth on that day, although that didn't stop her getting a photo of my astonished expression. I'd never tasted anything that sweet before."

There was a thoughtful silence. Then Murdock said in an innocent tone, "Any a those photos lyin' around, Colonel?"

BA and I turned to look at Hannibal, who shifted his weight back while being careful not to spill Murdock.

"Sorry, Captain. That information is highly classified and on a strict need-to-know basis."

"An' we need ta know. Ya can't give out juicy blackmail tidbits like that an' not follow through on 'em!" Murdock looked around and his gaze fell on me. "Peck wants ta know as well, don'tcha?"

I froze, my heart stopping mid-beat. No, I didn't want to know, although I wouldn't turn down a look at one of those photos. I didn't want to get involved. I'd sit in here and listen to them because it beat sitting outside and staring at the perimeter fence, but I didn't want anything other than for them to pretend I wasn't here. Getting noticed gets you hurt.

Aware that they were all waiting for my answer (_damn_ Murdock! Why did he insist on dragging me into their conversations?) I forced a shrug.

"I don't mind. I don't want any trouble, Captain. I just wanna keep my head down and stay alive."

"Aw, c'mon. You can't tell me that you ain't jus' a little bit curious 'bout what Hannibal here looked like when he was two. Man, he probably had one a them cute lil suits on an' everythin'."

I had to admit, I _was_ kinda curious, but I wasn't going to say so.

"What's _your_ earliest memory, Murdock?" Not one of my smoothest subject changes, I'll admit, but Hannibal took the hint.

"Yeah, come on, Captain. Share that golden moment with us."

Murdock grinned. "Mine...I think bein' picked up by my grandfather an' dumped on his horse. I was almost doin' the splits in the saddle an' I was hangin' onto the horn while my grandfather hung onto me an' led the horse around, but I loved every single minute of it. I even wanted to eat my dinner on horseback. When my mom an' I had ta go...oh man." He shook his head, still grinning. "I cried all the way home. An' we're talkin' quite a few states here, y'know; that's a lotta cryin'."

That got a smile from Hannibal, seconds before he turned to me. "What about you, Lieutenant?"

I shifted my weight. My earliest memory wasn't one I wanted to dwell on, and the few really happy memories I had were _so_ few that I was determined to keep them to myself. Guy's gotta have _some_ treasures.

Besides...state fairs? Horse riding? Both with strong family influence? What the hell did I have to compare with any of that?

"You don't want to hear my earliest memory."

"Sure we do, kid." Even then, as paranoid and emotionally screwed up as I was, I didn't think Hannibal was being a vulture – he probably thought I was just shy – but that didn't make it any easier for me.

"No. You don't."

"Aw, c'mon buddy." Murdock grinned. "Can't be that bad."

Looking at him, I had a sudden urge to wipe that damn grin off his face. The guy had just been _tortured_, for Chrissakes! He was supposed to be lying on his back (alright, or whichever part of his anatomy hurt the least) keeping quiet and trying not to draw attention to himself if he wanted to avoid any _more_ torture, or at the very least, doing the normal thing by claiming he couldn't work and couldn't fetch his own food and water either. He was _not_ supposed to be acting like this was no more than a minor inconvenience; couldn't he at least have the common decency to piss himself with terror once in a while? I hadn't met many officers, but if Murdock's behavior was what was expected of a US Army officer, then boy, was I ever in the wrong job.

"Alright." They wanted it? They'd get it. "Well, when I was a kid, right up until the age of about five, my mother and I lived in a trailer. My earliest memory is of curling up in the corner of that damn trailer while my mother hurled an empty vodka bottle at me and screamed that I was a sickness, a disease, and that she wished I'd died at birth, or better yet, never been born in the first place."

This pretty much killed the mood. I have a real talent for that. If you want your enemy's party to be a complete disaster, just send me fifty bucks (no checks, please) and an invitation. I'll wreck the whole thing for you.

I shrugged and got to my feet. "Told you you didn't wanna hear it."

Murdock let out a low whistle. "You're right, we didn't."

Hannibal shot him a glare, but I didn't mind Murdock's comment. At least he wasn't trying to pick out extra tidbits from my life for his own amusement.

I walked out of the billet, which took some doing as I had to clamber over BA first, and found a fairly empty part of the camp to sit down in. I was vaguely aware of a few of the men (I hadn't bothered learning their names; I wasn't in command and although there was a good chance Murdock might be dead before too long, Hannibal looked set to go on forever) staring at me, but took no notice of them. I didn't think they were hostile; since I'd spent a lot of my time inside the officers' billet, they probably just wanted to take this opportunity to have a good look at me.

It didn't take long before Murdock joined and settled down next to me. He didn't have the energy to stay on his feet for long; all he seemed to do was sit down or lie down so he could gather enough strength to stand up and move to another resting spot. Why the hell did Hannibal like this guy so much?

I braced myself for the quizzing. People always want to stick their noses into my business.

"Why'd you enlist?" I blurted it out without meaning to, and instantly wished I could bite out my tongue. I never asked personal questions – people have an irritating habit of returning the favor – but Murdock has a way of getting your thoughts out of you. Maybe I had some thought of distracting him; if he was telling me part of his life story, he couldn't start grilling me on mine.

Murdock shrugged. "Well, I always wanted ta learn how ta fly, only I didn't have that kinda money. Joinin' the Army seemed the easiest way. I got a pilot's license _an'_ I got paid for gettin' it."

"Is it worth your life?" When he was silent, I looked away. "I don't think anything's worth dying for."

Murdock chuckled. "Then why'd _you_ enlist, Peck?"

There was no way I was going to tell him _that_, and so I just shrugged and fed him the same crap I'd fed Hannibal. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"An' how does it _seem_ now?"

Was he laughing at me? It seemed unlikely – after all, his own situation was even worse than mine – but there was something about him. His eyes were amused, even though his face wasn't.

And that bugged me. Not him laughing at me, but his acting as though this was nothing more than an outing in the country.

I looked at him. "Murdock...aren't you scared?"

"Of Charlie?" He shrugged, no longer meeting my gaze. "A little, I guess, but ain't nothin' I can do ta change it, so why worry?"

I was sure he was more than a little scared, but I didn't say anything. I didn't want to admit that I was on the point of near pissing myself at the thought of interrogation here.

"You know what they do to you in there."

Murdock shrugged again. "Sure. Fact, I been in there so many times that I probably know the drill better'n they do. But the way I see it, I lived through it once, so I can live through it again, right?"

Maybe that was true. Maybe once you'd survived it, it lost a lot of its fear.

I swallowed hard and didn't answer. No matter how much I thought that, it didn't help.

"Aw, Peck." Murdock patted me on the shoulder with his good hand. "You don't gotta worry none. It's me they wanna beat nine kindsa hell outta, not you."

That was true, but even I wasn't enough of a rookie to believe that they'd just ignore me. I was an officer, and although I was the lowest rank and Chow would probably believe me when I said I hadn't been in the Army all that long, he'd still want to interrogate me, just to be sure.

"They musta done somethin' like this with ya in boot camp," Murdock added.

I picked a blade of grass and rolled it between my fingers nervously. "They did, but I was in the stockade for that part."

Murdock's eyebrows shot up. "_What_? What'd you do?"

I didn't mind his incredulity this time. Even I have to admit that I don't look like any kind of troublemaker.

"Punched a drill sergeant. Knocked him flying." I was proud of that too. A lot of the guys and NCOs at boot camp had thought I was a wimp. Putting the most feared drill sergeant on his back with one punch helped dispel that illusion. Of course, I did catch him completely by surprise, but still, not many recruits manage to knock their drill sergeant down.

"Can I ask why?"

I felt my mind and emotions tightening up, the way they always did when I felt under threat. "You can ask, Murdock, but you won't get an answer."

Murdock shrugged again. "Fair enough. Well, can I at least get some reassurance that you ain't gonna start knockin' the men in this camp flyin'?"

I was winding even tighter now. "If they leave me alone and don't come bugging me with dumb questions, I won't have to, will I?"

Murdock grinned but didn't answer. He knew I was talking about him. I knew I was talking about him. I don't think he gave a damn. When you got right down to it, I'd be hard-pushed to do anything to him that Chow hadn't already tried.

"Peck, I know this is kinda a strange thing ta say, given where we are, but you gotta try an' _relax_."

I opened my mouth, then shut it again and bit my tongue until I tasted blood. I wanted to talk to him, wanted to tell him that I was scared and I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing, wanted some word of reassurance from him that we were going to get out of this (I didn't believe Hannibal's assurances for one minute; he was senior officer and he'd say anything to keep up morale). Above all, I wanted to apologize to him for being such a jerk yesterday.

The words wouldn't come. I'd been forced to apologize several times in my life – regardless of whose fault it actually was – and I'd had far too many of my secrets and wishes coerced out of me, but now I'd actually found someone I _wanted_ to confide in, I couldn't bring myself to take that risk.

_Yeah. Everyone you risked trusting screwed you over, kicked you when you were down and then dumped you like so much trash. You're not a very good judge of character, are you_?

I nodded inwardly. I'd learned my lesson on that score. It was better for me never to make friends with Murdock, never to take that kind of chance again. If that meant letting him think I was a jerk, then I'd be a jerk. Being a jerk was fine. Jerks don't usually get bothered.

It was a shame though, because I thought I might be able to like Murdock.

I hesitated, then cleared my throat. "Murdock?"

"Uh huh?"

"When you tell them – Hannibal and BA – when you tell them things like...like that, about the horse riding...don't you ever stop to think about what they might do with that? About how they could twist it against you?" It was about all I could risk doing for him; put him on his guard against being hurt like I was. Tell him the things I wished someone had thought to tell _me, _instead of leaving him to find out the hard way.

Murdock raised his eyebrows. "No, Peck. I don't stop to think about that, 'cause they're my friends."

Oh boy, was he really this naive?

"Murdock, those guys aren't your _friends_!"

"Sure they are." No anger, no shock; just the same easy tone. I might just as well have told him that apples weren't fruit.

"Wake up and smell the coffee, Murdock! A colonel – even a lieutenant-colonel – does _not_ want to be friends with some guy who's only a captain!"

"He's friends with BA, an' BA's only a sergeant. That's even more of an _only_."

"That's different."

"No it ain't. An' anyway, Peck, if Hannibal wants ta be friends with me, I'd say that's his decision an' between him an' me."

"Murdock, a _friend_ is just someone who's playing nice while they work out the best way to stab you in the back! And believe me, a guy ranked as high as Smith is in a position to stab you pretty damn hard!"

He didn't answer for a long time, just looked at me with a kind of soft pity.

"An' you really believe that, don't you?"

"I don't _believe_ it, Murdock; I _know_ it."

"Oh, ya do, huh? Then why ain'tcha tryin' ta pass this life lesson onto Hannibal insteada me? Don'tcha think I'm gonna stab _him_ in the back?"

"No." I meant it too. Murdock was so adamant in refusing to fit into anyone's view of the world that I didn't have a lot of trouble accepting that he wouldn't fit into mine either.

"Well, that's somethin'. An' some people are jerks, sure. I met my fair share of 'em. But I ain't a jerk. _You_ ain't a jerk."

"You don't know what I am, Murdock."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you sure got that right, Peck. I ain't got a clue what kinda guy you really are."

I mimicked his expression. "And that bothers you, huh?"

Murdock laughed. "Course not. Fact is, I don't think you got much of a clue either, an' if _you_ don't know what kinda guy you are, how in the hell am _I_ supposed ta get it?"

That did it. I shot to my feet and walked off before he could fire any more verbal arrows at me. It was a good dignified exit – I used to practice them a lot as a kid – and would have been just about perfect if I hadn't rounded C Barracks and walked right into a guy I didn't know.

Okay, okay, so any soldier barring Murdock, Hannibal and BA would've fit that description, but there was something odd about this guy. He didn't look like a POW; he was in far too good a condition for that. Not only that, he looked and smelt clean, which was more than any of us could manage. I hadn't been here too long, but I'd already got used to the smell of overripe bodies. You know, history books tell you about the bad living conditions and lousy food in a POW camp (although they tend to be quite vague about the torture details; can't traumatize the poor little vultures who read these things, can we?) but I've never yet found one that mentions the _stench_.

"Who are you?"

He looked me up and down, pretty much like I was doing to him, then seemed to decide I was worthy of being answered.

"Lieutenant Angel."

My interest perked up a little at this. I hadn't realized there was another lieutenant in this camp (part of my reluctance to join in with Hannibal's little band of brothers was the fact that they all outranked me except BA, who didn't care what rank I was anyway) and he looked about my age. Maybe I didn't have to completely isolate myself after all. The name Angel sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on where I'd heard it before.

"Hi." I shook his offered hand, smiling. "Lieutenant—"

That was as far as I got before Murdock limped his way in between us and yanked Angel in with his good hand until their noses were almost touching.

"Get outta here, Angel."

Angel glanced at me, seemed to realize that I wasn't about to jump in and help him, and then apparently decided he didn't need my help anyway and pushed Murdock away from him.

"Suppose I don't want to?"

"Suppose I beat ya to a pulp again?"

Angel laughed. "How? Your leg's broken and your right hand is useless, in case you hadn't noticed."

Murdock's answer was short, sharp and to the point; he grabbed Angel again, pulled him forward and slammed his head into the lieutenant's face. Blood spurted out of Angel's nose and he dropped to the ground, both hands over the lower part of his face.

Murdock stood over him, lip curled. "Guess you ain't never been in a street fight, Lieutenant."

I backed off a step. I'd never seen Murdock – _Murdock _of all people, the Soldiers' Bestest Buddy In The Whole Wide World – be so much as unpleasant to the other POWs, let alone violent. I have to admit, I was kinda shocked.

Mostly, though, I was furious.

"What the hell was _that_ all about?" I demanded.

Murdock glanced at me. "Trust me, Peck, you do _not_ wanna jerk like that for your buddy."

"So now you're telling me who to be friends with? I know you outrank me, _sir_, but there are limits!" I shoved Murdock away, noticing his wince without so much as a twinge of guilt. Why did people _always_ want to screw things up for me? Always want to run my life? "I didn't think I needed your goddamn permission just to talk to another soldier!"

Murdock regained his balance with difficulty – I'd pushed him onto his bad leg, although I hadn't meant to – and limped a little way away.

"No. No, ya don't need my permission ta talk to another soldier. But if you're gonna stand around gettin' all nice an' cozy with slimy little traitors like Angel, then I'd watch my back if I were you. I know I ain't in no condition ta pick a fight with ya, but that don't go for the resta the men here."

I glanced around at the men in question. With the exception of Allen, who was still lying on his cot and growing weaker by the day – if not the hour – the men were all standing and staring at me. Not me and Murdock; just me.

"They already killed Sanders an' Davis, Peck," Murdock said very quietly. "What's one more officer?"

I stared at him. "What you said about Angel..."

"He's Chow's little pet. Guess he's runnin' outta things ta tell him, which is why he was lookin' ta recruit you; if he can bring him another pet, he can hold off bein' thrown in here for that little bit longer. I'm kinda surprised Chow ain't done that already, ta tell ya the truth."

"He was trying to use me?"

"Looks that way." Murdock paused. "'Course, if ya still wanna be buddies with him—"

I didn't get the rest of the sentence, since at that point I kicked Angel as hard as I could in the groin and his scream drowned it out. It was a damn good kick as well, though I say so myself, and it was also a pretty good political move. Now everybody believed that I just hadn't realized about Angel (which was true) and that I hated him as much as the rest of them (which wasn't so true). Don't get me wrong; I didn't exactly condone his actions, but I didn't hate them with the same depth as everyone else in the camp either. In a weird kinda way, I actually understood them. It was something I'd learned very early on, before and after I wound up in that damn orphanage; someone was always going to take the biggest piece of pie at dinner, so it might as well be me as anyone. If Angel hadn't ingratiated himself with the commandant, you can bet I would have been in there. No point dying if I didn't have to.

Having someone use me, though, was different. I was _through_ being other people's damn meal ticket!

Angel pushed himself to his feet and I hit out again, beating him back down to the ground. His face was becoming blurred in my mind and I was no longer sure if I was beating up Lieutenant Angel, Colonel Smith, Murdock, my old drill sergeant, or someone on that long, long list of people who had screwed me over. If I could have found a rock (no such luck; the guards didn't leave potential weapons like that lying about) I would have pounded him with it until there was nothing left. Until his face was no more than a bloody pulp.

Then I was moving away from him, because Hannibal had got in between us and _shoved_ me away, gripping my t-shirt in both hands.

"Peck! Leave him!"

"_No_!" I didn't know why it had suddenly become so important for me to keep going on Angel. Was this what my instructors were always going on about in boot camp, that killer instinct? Angel wasn't the first person I'd wanted to beat up on, but he was the first person I'd been in a position to, and I wasn't about to let that go without a serious fight. "He—you know what he is! He was trying to use me!" I writhed uselessly in Hannibal's grasp, kicking and wrestling with him in an attempt to get free and back to Angel, and failing. "I'm gonna kill him!" I raised my voice and aimed it over Hannibal's shoulder at Angel, who had started crawling away. "_You hear that, you little bastard? I'm gonna kill you_! _I'm gonna rip out your spine and strangle you with it, you piece of—_"

Hannibal slapped me, hard enough to snap my head to one side.

"_Lieutenant_!" When I stared at him, my cheek already stinging, Hannibal lowered his voice. "Get. A. _Grip_!"

I stared at him and remembered a trick I'd perfected in the orphanage. "You first, _sir_!"

Before he worked out what I was going to do, I'd yanked my t-shirt over my head and wrapped it around his wrists, then taken off after Angel.

I was two feet away from him when Hannibal caught up with me again, this time looping my t-shirt over my head and around my waist, pulling me tight against him.

"Cute trick, kid." His voice was quiet, right in my ear. "You'll have to teach me how to do it one of these days."

"I'm not teaching you _anything_, Smith! Now _get off me_!" I kicked back, digging my heel into the top of his shin and dragging it down, even though I already knew it wasn't going to do any good. We all wore plimsolls here. Nowhere near as hard as Army boots (and no convenient shoelaces to hang ourselves with either) but still a lot harder than bare heels.

Unfortunately, we also wore fatigues, which – apart from being good camouflage – are made of a pretty tough material. Hannibal could feel what I was doing, but I don't think it was any more painful than that; he didn't do anything except tighten his hold and speak. His voice was very quiet, right in my ear.

"Peck, listen to me. It's okay. It's okay."

Yeah, right. Like I'd never heard _that_ line before as a kid. Usually right before the person saying it made the world very _un_-okay.

"_Nothing_ about this place is okay, Colonel. We're all going to die here, and you know it. You stand there bragging about how honest you are with your men, and all the time you're lying to all of them by telling them they're going to survive!"

"I never tell anyone _that_, Lieutenant, unless I'm a lot surer of my ground than I am here." Hannibal paused, then lowered his voice. "Alright. You want the truth? No holds barred? Here it is. You will be taken in front of the camp commandant – probably quite soon, since you just beat up his pet – and tortured. Even if you spill your guts and tell him you want to turn traitor, he'll torture you just to make sure. You probably won't be taken there as much as me or Murdock, since you're a rookie, but he'll still want you more than the rest of the men on the basis that you're an officer and therefore you know more than the enlisted soldiers. If you turn traitor, every man in this camp – including Murdock and myself – will make your life even more of a living hell than it is right now. If you don't, that duty falls to Chow. You'll probably get very sick at some point, maybe even die from disease. If you get open wounds like Murdock or me or half the men in this camp, flies might come and lay their eggs on the edge for the maggots to hatch out and stuff themselves on the dead and rotting flesh inside. Now that can actually help prevent infection, so long as they're regular maggots. If they're screwworm maggots, though, they will burrow into the _living_ flesh and devour that, chewing through your muscle and tissue. You'll wind up being eaten alive from the inside out."

I was silent. Well, to be perfectly accurate, I was speechless.

"There. You wanted the truth, and now you know it. Feel better?"

I swallowed, my throat dry. "Not really."

"Did you prefer it when you didn't know?"

"Yeah." I bit the word off at the end, not looking at him.

"Good. So I take it you're not going to go around spreading any more bad news?"

"Let _go_ of me!"

Hannibal didn't budge. "First I want your word that you're going to keep your prophecies of doom to yourself, or at least confine them to the officers' billet."

My word? Oh well, he could have _that_; my word was a pretty casual commodity. A useful tool for getting what I wanted, but no more than that. "Yeah. Sure, Colonel."

The grip tightened. How could one guy a couple inches shorter than me who hadn't had a decent meal for days be so damn _strong_?

"You know, kid, something tells me you're not taking this too seriously."

"What? Sure I am." My voice was running on automatic. I couldn't get the image of those maggots out of my head. I have very bad memories of my mom's always overflowing (and infested) trash can and being the one who had to clean it out. I also remember grabbing a chicken leg that had been thrown out a week or so earlier and taking a huge, ravenous bite before checking it for...well, I'm sure you can fill in the blanks. I still have the odd bad dream about that. "Sir...d-did you mean it about the maggots?"

"You calling me a liar now, Peck?" I recognized the note in Hannibal's voice; he was testing me, not seriously angry.

"No sir, but I thought you, uh, you may have exaggerated to make your point."

"Fair answer, kid." Hannibal paused, then turned me around and smiled at me. "I didn't."

"Yes sir." Would they get into my mouth? If Chow cut my cheek open, would those nail flies or screw flies or whatever the hell they were lay their eggs there? And if they did and the maggots started eating, would they eventually chew their way right through? Would I be talking to Murdock or someone and suddenly feel something small and wriggling drop onto my tongue, maybe start burrowing right _into_ my tongue? How long would it take?

"Peck? Are you listening to me?"

I was vaguely aware that Hannibal had been speaking during this too-graphic movie in my mind, but had no idea what he was saying.

"Yes sir." What would happen when the maggots pupated? Would there be room for them? Did they eat their way out first or would I wind up with a body full of flies...flies laying more eggs to hatch into more maggots—

"Peck?"

Did he ever shut up? "_Yes_ sir."

There was a stifled snicker from someone. I never found out who, but the sound brought me back to myself and I blinked once or twice, then looked at Hannibal.

"Sir?"

Hannibal's expression mixed amusement with concern. "You just admitted to being pregnant with Chow's baby, Lieutenant."

I opened and closed my mouth several times, then pasted a weak grin on my face. "Ah. Uh...really?"

"Mm. Told you you weren't listening to me. At least, based on that, I hope you weren't."

More snickers. I managed a more genuine grin this time. Much as I hate being the butt of any joke, even I had to admit that was pretty funny.

"Well, I didn't want to spoil the surprise, Colonel. I mean, what with everyone in this place having to deal with _being_ in this place, I didn't want them to worry about me."

"Yeah, right. Like _that's_ ever gonna happen_._"

It wasn't Hannibal who said that – for a moment I thought I was going insane and my innermost thoughts had somehow found a way to voice themselves out loud – but a POW off to one side. He met my glare without flinching but didn't repeat himself. I guess he didn't want to risk getting what I'd just handed out to Angel.

"Secure that, Private!" That _was_ Hannibal, and I was left with the sinking knowledge that it should have been me.

What the hell. I wasn't used to having people salute me and call me _sir_ (although I sure liked it) much less pulling rank on those who mouthed off to me. I didn't much like Hannibal fighting my corner for me, but I knew enough about human nature to know that if I added something along the lines of _yeah, and don't do it again_, I'd wind up looking even weaker and more pathetic than I did now, and so I opted for a dignified return to the billet.

I had about fifteen minutes to myself (which was a luxury in that place, believe me) before Hannibal returned.

For a few minutes he didn't say anything, just looked at me until I started to squirm. Probably what he wanted. Jerk.

"I know it's not easy, kid." His voice was calm, and pretty inflexible. He might have known it wasn't easy being here, but that didn't mean he was going to make any special allowances for me.

"I can handle it." I didn't look at him as I said those words. I wasn't all that sure I _could_ handle it, but I'd rather die than admit as much to the likes of Colonel Smith.

"I was talking about being an officer, Peck, not being in here. I know it's tough on you. It was tough on me when I was a lieutenant."

It was all getting a little too friendly for my taste and I got to my feet. "Yeah. Well. I'm glad we had this little chat, Smith. Now if you'll excuse me—"

I headed for the exit and then had to reverse course rather abruptly to avoid walking smack into Murdock. I swear he and Hannibal were joined at the hip.

"This camp needs strong officers, Peck." Hannibal's voice held a faint note of challenge. I ignored it. I'd had the whole manipulation and emotional blackmail thing for most of my damn life. Did he really think he was any better?

"I don't care what you think this camp needs, Smith! All I want is—" I started to say _to be left alone_, but the words wouldn't come, mostly because Hannibal had seized me by the front of my t-shirt and pushed me into the wall. It wasn't quite an attack – even then I understood that he wanted to immobilize me, not hurt me – but it was hard enough to let me know he wasn't kidding around.

"Alright, kid. Listen and listen good, because I'm only going to say this once. My name is _Colonel_ or _Hannibal_ or _sir_, your choice, but you don't get to call me by name until I either give you permission or you're a hell of a lot higher in the pecking order than you are right now. Is that understood?"

I glowered at him, hating him for making me do this, hating him for forcing words out of me that I didn't want to say...in fact, just hating him period.

"Yes." I muttered it at the floor.

Hannibal tightened his hold. He was a fast learner, this guy; he'd pinned me against the wall of the billet so I couldn't whip my t-shirt off and get free that way, like I had before.

"What?"

"Yes." I knew what he wanted, but I was damned if I was going to give it to him! I'm good at reading people, and my instincts told me that he wasn't going to beat the word out of me, therefore I had nothing to worry about.

"What?"

Nothing...except the crippling boredom engendered by playing this game. I'd had this before; people just badgering me into submission, never giving me a moment's peace and quiet or time to consider things. Okay, so what he wanted didn't require much consideration or soul-searching on my part, but still, if he thought he could break me that easily, he was in for one hell of a shock.

"I said _yes_! What's the matter; are you deaf?"

The hold tightened again. This time there was ice in his eyes. "Looks like I must be, Peck, because there's another word should be coming out of your mouth that I'm just not hearing."

I gave in. Not because he'd beaten me or I was afraid of him, you understand; just because I was bored.

"_Sir_." I sneered it at him with all the contempt I could muster.

"Better." He released me and I smoothed out my t-shirt where he'd scrunched it up. (It wasn't much of a wardrobe, but it was all I had and I didn't want some old guy messing it up. Besides that, I do _not_ like being handled, and if Hannibal Smith didn't watch his step, he'd find that out the hard way). "We'll work on the attitude later, Lieutenant."

"The hell we will." I muttered it under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear while still being quiet enough to pretend he hadn't.

Hannibal paused, then turned back to face me. "I'll pretend that you didn't say that."

There was nothing obvious in his voice or expression, but something told me I'd pushed him as far as I could, and I really didn't want to push any harder.

Again, it wasn't because I was scared of him. Let's get that clear right now. I was in no way, shape or form even _remotely _scared of Colonel Hannibal Smith. I just...didn't want to push him any harder, that's all.

"Ya know, Colonel, you never did tell us; how'dja wind up with that nickname anyhow?"

Hannibal glanced at Murdock and relaxed about half an iota. "Well, I have a very unorthodox style, kinda like the original Hannibal. I guess it comes from that."

"Ah." Murdock abandoned Hannibal for a better form of entertainment (read: me) and grinned. "How 'bout you, Peck? What's your nickname?"

"I don't have one." In fact, I had a couple, but I was trying like hell to forget them. My first name – Templeton – had started out as a nickname from some of the sweet, darling little brats I was forced to live with. You know, after that damn rat in _Charlotte's Web_...whichcould explain why I like pork chops so much, now that I think about it. Anyway, it stuck and pretty soon everyone was calling me it and not many people could remember why anymore. (Peck was my real last name, but I can't remember what my first one was).

"You don't got a nickname?" Murdock sounded horrified, then he turned to Hannibal. "Well, we better do somethin' about that, huh Hannibal?"

Hannibal, damn him, was looking faintly amused as he regarded me over his cigar. "I guess so, Murdock."

Of course he would. Hannibal always agreed with anything Murdock said or suggested. Can we say _favoritism_, boys and girls?

I didn't wait around to see what degrading name was going to be fixed on me this time. Instead I just got to my feet and strode out the door.

I crossed the camp and stopped as close to the fence as I dared – if those guards patrolling outside wanted to beat up on me, I wasn't going to make it easy for them by coming within arm's reach – and sat down, breathing rapidly. If the whole ganging up thing was going to start...no. I couldn't handle that. Not here. Anywhere else, sure, but not here.

The trouble was, I had no way of stopping it. About the only person I could justifiably pull rank on was BA, and if I tried _that_ trick, I'd be lucky if he only laughed at me.

Looking back on it, I can't believe I freaked out as much as I did...except emotionally I was pretty screwed up, plus I was a lot younger then.

Murdock being Murdock, of course, couldn't leave well enough alone and had to come after me. It took him a couple minutes to reach me – I'd deliberately gone as far away from the officers' billet as I could, hoping that he'd think it was too much effort to walk that far on a bad leg – but he managed it and plonked himself down beside me.

I tensed, turning away from him. I didn't want to be a part of their little group. I was better off alone. Always had been. Leslie had taught me that. She hadn't been the first, by any means – there had been plenty of others, adults and kids, who had helped me to understand that the word _people_ was synonymous with _scum –_ but I was determined she would be the last. There was no way I was going to let anyone else get close to me.

"Aw, c'mon Peck, don't be that way. You know we didn't mean nothin' by it. It was just a kinda affectionate ribbin'."

"I don't _want_ your affection, Murdock! I don't want anyone's affection! I just want to be left alone. Think you can handle that?"

Murdock raised his eyebrows. "Well, sure, I can handle that. But can you?" He leaned back, stretching both his legs out in front of him. "Y'know, place like this...guy needs a few friends around him. Couple decent guys ta watch your back."

"Right, but where do you and Hannibal come in?" I shot back.

Murdock sucked in his breath with an audible hiss. "Ooh, Peck. One a these days you're gonna cut yourself on that there tongue of yours. Lemme give ya a little advice, if you ain't too raw an' bleedin' on the inside ta take it. It ain't worth upsettin' Hannibal over somethin' as small as this."

"I. Don't. Want. A. God. Damned. Nickname. What is so hard to understand about that?" I turned a glare on Murdock, but the sympathy I saw in his own eyes meant it didn't last very long and I looked away again.

"That ain't hard to understand at all. What's hard to understand is why you exploded when the word was even mentioned. 'Cause if ya wanted to avoid drawin' attention ta yourself, that sure wasn't the right way ta go about it."

"I just want to be left alone, Murdock." I could feel tears starting to well up inside (they'd been starting ever since Murdock had made his comment about _raw and bleeding_; I had no idea why). "I won't be any trouble, I'm not gonna sell anyone out or pick fights or undermine anyone's authority, so _please_...just _leave me alone_."

He didn't say anything. He didn't leave either; he just sat there, leaning back on his good hand and studying the sky. I got the odd feeling he was waiting for something, but I had no idea what.

Sympathy, perhaps? He'd be out of luck if that were the case. I was surprised he managed to get around so well on that bad leg of his, and I think a little part of me even admired him for it, but I didn't feel sorry for him. I hadn't asked for him to follow me, and I hadn't even _wanted_ him to follow me, so if his leg and various other tortured parts of his anatomy were hurting him, it was his own stupid fault. Nothing to do with me.

"Where ya from, Peck?"

I shifted my weight. "What's that got to do with you?"

"Nothin'. You jus' look kinda like this guy I had a run-in with in Detroit."

I stared at him. I wasn't an expert on state accents (at least, not back then) but I _was_ sure Murdock hailed from somewhere a little further south than Detroit.

"What were you doing in Detroit?"

"Lookin' for LA." Murdock said this matter-of-factly, as though searching for a Californian city in Michigan was par for the course. "Y'know...my grandparents died when I was fifteen an' there wasn't anyone left ta take care a me, so I took off before I got dumped into some orphanage or other."

I was silent, digesting this. "Didn't your grandparents leave you anything?"

"Oh sure, but it was left in the care of one a my uncles, ta be held in trust until I was eighteen." Murdock gave me a twisted kind of smile. "Needless ta say, it wasn't there all that long. I got the ranch though. That pays a nice little rent. Anyway, I left home with all the money I'd managed ta save from workin' odd jobs an' the like, got as far as I could on buses an' trains an' when the money ran out, I walked the resta the way, an' don't change the subject, Peck. We were talkin' about nicknames."

I shot to my feet. "No, _you_ were talking about them! I told you, I don't want a goddamn nickname!"

"Okay, sure." Murdock was silent for a few seconds, then hauled himself to his feet. "But hypothetically speakin', Peck, if ya _did_ want a nickname...what would it be?"

My fist had shot back to my shoulder before I knew it, ready to punch. Murdock didn't move, didn't even blink. I think he knew as well as I did that I was bluffing. Selfish I may be, but that didn't mean I could bring myself to hit an injured man.

I lowered my fist very slowly and turned away. "Leave me alone, Murdock."

"Not until ya answer the question, buddy. An' if I gotta pull rank on ya, I will."

Maybe if I did answer him, he'd leave me in peace. Thinking back to those halcyonic (_ha_!) days at the orphanage, I snorted. "What about the Rat?"

Murdock blinked, then shrugged. "Well, if that's really what ya want, Peck. Though I gotta say, ya don't look much like a rat, face like yours." He paused, studied me more closely, then grinned. "Hey, that's it! Face!"

"Murdock. I. Don't. Want. A. Nickname." I kinda liked _Face_ – if I _had_ wanted a nickname, that would have been perfect – but I wasn't going to give in so easily.

"Aw, c'mon Faceman. Give it a try, an' if you don't like it after...ooh, about a week, then we'll drop it. Okay?"

"We could both be dead in a week, Murdock."

He shrugged. "Well, there you are, then. Problem solved."

That was definitely one way of looking at it. Besides, I didn't see that I had any choice in the matter. I'd been here before, with people who tried to get all friendly and cozy with me, and I knew Murdock's friendly attitude would change in a heartbeat if I didn't react the exact way he wanted me to. Part of life is learning to pick your battles. I was willing to fight Hannibal and I was willing to fight Murdock, but even I wasn't arrogant enough to think I could take on the two of them.

"Alright. Fine. But no nicknames!"

Murdock beamed at me and clapped me on the shoulder. "Sure, Faceman, anythin' you want."

I turned to glare at him, but he'd already started back to the officers' billet. For want of anything better to do, I followed him.

This was a mistake, as I discovered the instant I walked through the door.

"An' there he is! Hannibal, meet Faceman! Face...aw, you know Hannibal already, right?"

I turned the coldest, most hate-filled glare I could summon on him, while wondering (not for the first time) just where this guy kept getting his energy from.

"I _said_ no nicknames, Murdock!"

"Uh huh. Sure, Face."

I hated that. It would have been better if he'd turned round and told me I was being nicknamed whether I liked it or not. Pretending to agree with what I wanted before going right ahead and denying me it anyway was rubbing salt into an already painful wound.

Turning away, I saw Hannibal watching me with a kind of amused sympathy.

"If you really don't like it, Peck, I'll tell him to lay off."

Now he was getting in on the act! _Why_? Did I have the words _STOMP ME_ written on my back? Even if the offer was genuine (which I doubted; after I'd tried to fight with him in full view of the men and after our most recent interaction, there was no way this guy was going to put himself out for me) I didn't like the thought of owing the likes of Hannibal Smith a favor. People have an annoying habit of calling them in, and I didn't think he'd be any different.

"I can live with it, sir," I told him, even though I wasn't sure if I could.

Hannibal raised his eyebrows, but apparently decided not to call me on it; he just shrugged. "Good."

From that moment on, I was known as Face.

* * *

**Okay, so that's the first Face POV up and running ;-) (Next chapter or so, we're back to Hannibal) In the meantime, hope you enjoyed this and if you read, please review!**


	9. Age Old Question

**Elf:** Thanks :-) It's a fair question, and my answer is that I never write slash fics (at least, not fanfics; what my OCs get up to is their own business ;-)) so there is absolutely no danger of this turning into one. And if there were, yes, I would have mentioned it in the summary and probably in the first chapter as well

**Noutchka: **Thanks, glad you're enjoying it :D

**wotumba1: **Thanks. Yeah, Face's POV's an interesting one to write, at least at this time in his life ;-)

**Me:** (or whoever wrote this review =P) Thanks :-) And here, one update ;-)

**Hanna:** Thanks :-)

**SGreenD: **I know, and I'm sorry you had to wait so long (for this one as well as the last one!) As for who breaks through to Face...even I'm still working that one out, although I have a pretty good idea...

**Taluliaka:** Yeah, poor Face :-( All guts and stubbornness and he doesn't quite know what to do with them yet ;-)

**Vexx:** Face...well, you'll find out about him soon. Or...well, since this is Face we're talking about, maybe not so soon ;-)

**Unknowen:** Well, you wanted to get back into Hannibal's head, so here ya go ;-)

**Wah-Keetcha: **Thanks :-) And one update (maybe not exactly 'soon' but better late than never ;-))

* * *

**HANNIBAL**

The next day was a sad, sad affair. At least, it was for me; it was the day I smoked my last cigar. BA was thrilled at that, to the point where I sent him out to keep an eye on the men, along with strict instructions _not_ to scowl at any who might approach him. I thought I could rely on him; he was usually pretty good with enlisted men. It wasn't always safe to let him play with the other sergeants unsupervised, but that didn't matter here since he was the only one in the camp. And it also meant I didn't have to listen to any of his snipes about my smoking (while I have a sense of humor, it's really _not_ a good idea to make fun of me when I'm facing nicotine deprivation). Murdock had disobeyed my orders to remain in the billet and sneaked out to check on the men, but I could always chew him out later.

I finished burying my cigar butt and then glanced at Peck, who turned his head away as soon as he saw me looking. I'd expected as much. I knew he resented me for forcing my authority on him, and I didn't think any the less of him for it. He was very young, he had more screw ups and problems whirling around inside him than Pandora's Box, and I'd been resented before. Now I had to walk a damn fine line between keeping that authority and keeping him placated before that resentment of his had a chance to boil into active hatred.

I wasn't going to go out of my way to be nice to him. I'd seen enough officers make that mistake – and made it a few times myself, if I'm honest – to try it there. Being excessively nice to someone you've just chewed out gives the impression that you feel you're in the wrong, which either makes them into a martyr or an arrogant sonofabitch (sometimes there's not that much difference between the two). Instead, my plan was to act as though nothing had happened.

"How did you sleep last night?" Not that I especially cared, but it was as good a conversation starter as any.

He stared at me, eyes narrowed. "After your little horror story? How do you _think_ I slept?"

I glanced at him. "What horror story?"

"The one you told me about those damn maggots!"

I felt a hot spark of guilt. It was true I'd set out to scare Peck (or Face, or whatever you wanted to call him) in an attempt to drive my point home, but I hadn't meant to give the poor kid nightmares.

"I didn't think it was that frightening, Face." I noticed his irritated grimace and added, "You mind if I call you that?"

He gave me a look packed full of sullen hatred, and in a way I was pleased to see it. At least now the kid wasn't hiding behind a mask.

"If I say _yes_, will it make any difference?"

I shrugged. "Of course. I may be hard sometimes, but I'm not unreasonable."

Face (I couldn't go back to thinking of him as Peck, not when his new nickname fit him so perfectly) turned his head away. "Yeah. Right."

"Face—Peck," I amended, "it's just a nickname."

"That's not the _point_!" He shot to his feet and tried to pace the tiny billet, but gave up when he had to clamber over BA's cot for the third time.

"Alright." I kept calm, realizing that the kid was genuinely upset, not just throwing a hissy fit to try and snatch back some of the authority I'd forced on him yesterday. "What is the point?"

"The point is I didn't _want_ a goddamn nickname! The point is that my name is about the only thing in this screwed up world that's _mine_ and now you and that sanctimonious little _bastard_ Murdock are trying to take it away from me!" He paused for breath, glaring at me, daring me to chew him out.

I didn't. Instead I just sat there and looked at him, waiting. It was a good tactic, one that had never let me down yet. There was a_ back off_ air about Face that intrigued me (when I was a kid, my folks learned very quickly that any rules along the lines of _do not do this_ had to be accompanied by an explanation, otherwise I'd scamper off and do it just to find out why they didn't want me to). Part of that was his youth, I guess; this kid barely looked old enough to _shave, _let alone enlist.

Shaving...there was something about that which niggled at me. I stared at him for a few minutes, trying to figure it out, then it clicked.

"Where do you keep the razors, Peck?" I kept my voice very low. I didn't think any of the men would deliberately eavesdrop, but if word got out that this kid had a luxury item like razor blades, I doubted even Murdock would be able to stop the stampede. Hell, I doubted the entire Viet Cong _army_ would be able to stop it.

He gave me a puzzled look that would have fooled me completely if I hadn't known it was a fake.

"What razors?"

"Kid, you've been here a few days. Not as long as I have, but long enough to start sprouting hairs all over that little chin of yours, just like the rest of us have, and yet there's not a single hair to be seen. That means you're either a _lot_ younger than your recruiter believed – and even the Army isn't _that_ desperate – or you're holding out on us."

I could see him turning this over, trying to think up a convincing lie before seeming to decide that there wasn't one.

"I want first use of it every morning."

I shrugged. "Okay, but if you're in with Chow on that particular morning, we're not going to wait for you."

Well, I didn't much care which order we all got to shave in, so long as every man got to do it. Since Peck had been the only one who'd managed to smuggle or steal a razor from somewhere, his request to go first wasn't so unreasonable.

"Do I want to know how you smuggled it in – you _did_ smuggle it in, right?"

"Yes. And no. You don't."

I nodded. I'd take his word for that; if a soldier says you don't want to know how he smuggled something into a place, you _really_ don't want to know.

"Alright. You'll get first use of the razor, but I'll look after it."

Face bristled instantly. "I'm not going to beg permission from you to use my own damn razor!"

I kept calm, which wasn't easy when the kid insisted on seeing insults and put-downs in everything I said.

"Lieutenant, the men out there are under a lot of stress."

Understanding dawned. Attitude aside, this kid was not stupid.

"You mean...?" He flicked a thumbnail across his wrist.

"Yeah. I _do_ mean. I've seen more men in that situation than you have, kid. I can tell the signs better than you."

Face hesitated. "So if they somehow manage to get hold of it and..." He repeated the thumbnail gesture.

"If that happens, then I'll take full responsibility when we get out of here," I told him. At least, I would as far as anyone could; there's only a certain amount of that kind of responsibility you can take before your mind shatters and this kid was far too young to shoulder any of it.

"And what if you die before that happens?"

I shrugged. "Well, if I'm dead then I can't stop you blaming me, can I?"

I could see him thinking about this for a few seconds before he shrugged. "No. I guess not."

"Right. So where's the razor?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it and lifted his cot to reveal a slash in the middle, probably made with that same razor. Rummaging inside it, he pulled out a small blade and handed it to me. He did so a little too forcefully, with the end result that he almost sliced my palm open.

"Thanks." I slid the blade into a small hollow I'd discovered and enlarged, one which currently held a particularly vicious looking shard of pottery BA had retrieved from that shattered bowl for me, and pretended not to notice Face staring hard at the place.

Sitting back on my heels, I studied him hard. I'd been kidding when I'd mentioned his age (or possible lack of it) but now I found myself wondering about it for the first time. He _did_ look very young...

"How old are you, kid?"

"Twenty four."

If he'd said _eighteen_, I would just about have believed him. As it was, it was such a ridiculous answer that I laughed before I could stop myself. "No, really. How old are you?"

Face shot to his feet. "Are you calling me a liar?"

I rose to mine. "Put it on hold, Lieutenant, and sit down!"

He stared at me for a few seconds, half cowed, half mutinous, then lowered himself onto the cot again, a sullen look on his face.

"My feet were hurting anyway."

I let him have that one and sat down opposite him. "Alright. Now. In answer to your question, kid, yes. I _am_ calling you a liar, at least when it comes to your age."

He gave me a look that was a lot less sullen and a lot more surprised. I guess honesty wasn't something that had figured much in this kid's world up until now.

"You think the VC're gonna care how old I am?"

"The VC are not the ones questioning you, Lieutenant, although I admit that's probably just a matter of time."

Face raised his eyebrows and gave me another look that could only be described as smug, before getting to his feet. "Right. Well, if you don't believe me, Colonel, that's not my problem, and if I don't want to give you a different answer, how are you going to make me? I mean, you don't strike me as the kinda guy who goes around beating answers out of people."

He was right about that (at least as far as my own men went; beating answers out of enemy soldiers doesn't count).

I opened my mouth to call him back, but he'd already slipped out the door and I swore inwardly. This kid was as slippery as an eel, and I still didn't understand why. Well, no; if he _was_ underage – and the more I thought about it, the more certain of it I was – then I completely understood why he didn't want to let a senior officer like me in on that little secret, but it still didn't explain the rest of his attitude.

I didn't have much time to consider it, however, because at that point Murdock poked his head around the door, saw I was in here and tried to sneak away again.

"_Captain_." I gave him my best _you're-in-enough-trouble-already _voice and it seemed to work; he froze, turned and saluted.

"Sir."

"Don't try and get round me, soldier. In here and sit down."

He obeyed, dragging his injured leg behind him. I waited until he was settled (and until I was sure he wasn't about to pass out) then let him have it.

"I thought I made it crystal clear that you were _not_ to leave this billet in your condition."

Not one muscle so much as twitched on Murdock's face. "Yes sir, you did, sir."

"So why did you take it into your head to disobey a direct order from a superior officer?"

"Because someone's gotta go around an' try an' keep the men's spirits up, sir, an' I ain't seen that superior officer doin' mucha that himself. Sir."

That stung, mostly because it was true. I don't object to having other colonels or generals point out my mistakes, but when it comes from a captain young enough to be my son, I start to worry about my career choice...not to mention prospects.

"Just because you disagree with the way I've been running things, Captain, that does _not_ give you the right to go head to head with me."

"Yes sir. Understood, sir. So what about you punchin' Sanders, sir?"

Irritation bubbled up in me to the point where I was seriously tempted to punch Murdock as well. I didn't do it, of course – the kid had made a valid point, and I was honest enough to admit that this was a large part of the irritation in question – but something he saw must have unsettled him; he shifted his weight a little.

"Sorry sir."

"No you're not. If you're not going to respond to subtlety, Murdock, then let me lay it on the line for you. You are no longer in command here. I _am_. Are we clear on that?"

He took a deep breath, then sighed. "Yeah, Colonel. We're clear."

"This means when I give you an order or tell you something – like how I don't want to see you wandering around outside until you've healed up a little – the only words I want to hear come out of your mouth are _yes sir_. Is _that _clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. And Murdock, when I say I don't want to see you wandering around outside, I mean _don't do it_, not _wait until you think I'm not looking and then take your chances_."

I could see the _dammit_ flash across his eyes at my closing this little loophole and choked back a grin. This kid really was like me.

"Colonel, I—"

"Are you going to stay inside?"

Murdock glared at me and then surrendered, although not with a particularly good grace. "Yes sir."

"Good."

"But if anythin' happens ta the men—"

I stared him into silence and waited until he squirmed before speaking to him.

"Murdock, do you _really_ believe I'll do anything to endanger those men?"

He hesitated, thought for a second or two, then shook his head. "No sir. Not really_. _Sir...d'ya mind if I ask ya a question?"

"Well, you didn't give me a lot of choice there, Captain, but you can ask me another one."

"What d'ya think of Face?"

I stared at Murdock. "You know he doesn't like you calling him that."

Murdock grinned. "Yeah, I know. An' if he wants me ta stop, Colonel, all he's gotta do is ask me. That's _ask_, not order; I still outrank him, Hannibal, even if I don't always pull that rank."

I turned the stare up a few megawatts. "Well, I outrank _you_, Murdock, and I _am_ pulling it. I don't need infighting among my junior officers. We have to stick together and we can't do that if you're needling Face."

Murdock's grin broadened, something which puzzled me until I realized what I'd said.

"I mean Peck."

"Yes sir." His demeanor was a little too meek, but I let it pass.

"And in answer to your question, Captain, I'm not sure what I think of him, to be honest. I know he's lying about his age."

Murdock shrugged. "Yeah, well, he ain't the only one."

I glanced back at him, interested. I hadn't bothered wondering too much about the men's ages – if they weren't underage, fine, and if they _were_, then there wasn't a damn thing any of us could do about it stuck here – but this was intriguing.

"Who else?"

Murdock shifted his weight and, to my surprise, blushed. "Uh..."

"_You_?" I stared at him, half shocked, half amused. "You don't expect me to believe that _you're_ underage!"

He squirmed a little more, then said, "Well, no, Colonel, I ain't underage. I just ain't quite as age-y as I may've led ya to believe on the first time of our discussin' it."

"Really?" I raised my eyebrows. "So how _age-y_ are you?"

He opened his mouth, then hesitated. "It stays between us, right? You can't tell the men, you can't tell Face, you can't even tell BA."

"BA wouldn't care how old you were, Murdock, but if it means that much to you, then alright. I promise I won't tell anyone."

He took a long, deep breath, then let it out. "Twenty one. Or twenty two. I ain't exactly sure which, Colonel; it was a few months before my birthday when I crashed in the jungle, an' I dunno just how long ago that was."

I raised my eyebrows. "Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed, Captain. Based on your reluctance and all the secrecy you swore me to, I was expecting you to be about nine or ten."

That got a grin.

"Why'd you lie?" I wasn't as angry as I might otherwise have been; lying about your age is so common that I'm not sure it even counts as a lie anymore. Hell, my ex-wife celebrated three twenty second birthdays in a row to my knowledge, and probably as many more after that as she could get away with.

"'Cause mosta the men here are older'n I am an'...I dunno, Colonel. I guess I figured maybe they wouldn't respect me as much if they knew I was just a kid."

In an odd sort of way, I could understand that. I'd been a newly-promoted first lieutenant – newly-promoted as in about two weeks beforehand – when I'd been drop-kicked into commanding the POW camp in Korea. I'd also only been a year or two older than Murdock at the time and I'd had to take some flak from a couple of the men there over my age, or lack of it, that didn't end until I threw one of them into the fence (it had been a bad day).

We sat in silence for a few minutes, before Murdock cleared his throat. "Colonel...y'know you said ta Faceman about you bein' in that POW camp? Durin' the Korean War?"

I glanced at him. "Yes?"

Murdock squirmed a few minutes, although I wasn't sure if that was due to awkwardness or physical pain. I got the feeling he'd been wanting to ask me this for a while now, probably ever since he'd heard me talking to Face.

"Y'ever dream about it?" It came out in so much of a rush that I had to get him to repeat it before I understood. When I did, I was silent for a few minutes, then nodded.

"Yeah. It got to the point when I wondered if I'd ever manage to sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat again."

"An' didja?"

"Eventually. I still get the occasional nightmare, though."

Murdock managed a grin. "Yeah, I figured that last night."

I frowned at him, not because I was angry but because I couldn't remember having a bad dream last night, and dreams about the camp in Korea weren't dreams that I ever forgot. In fact, I remembered them so well that I was usually too scared to go back to sleep.

"What?"

"Yep. Heard ya moanin' an' everythin'."

"_Me_?" I stared at Murdock. "Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure, Colonel. Least, I heard moanin' an' it seemed ta be comin' from your direction."

This wasn't much of a help; since Murdock slept against the far wall, any sound in the billet could be said to come from my direction.

"It wasn't me. Maybe it was Peck. Or BA, although I'm not sure he's ever had a nightmare in his life."

Murdock gave me a look. "Colonel, how in the _world_ could I mistake _BA_'s voice for yours?"

It did sound a little stupid when he put it that way.

"Where is the big guy anyway?" Murdock added.

I glanced at him. "Didn't you see him when you were making your rounds, Captain?"

"To tell ya the truth, Hannibal, I spent mosta the time leanin' against A Barracks an' tryin' not ta puke my guts out, an' I couldn't see much in fronta my eyes 'cept stars. Y'know, they're real pretty this time a year."

"Right." I examined him a little more closely, reaching in to place a hand on his forehead. "Feels like you might be running a fever."

He gave me a concerned look. "Am I sick?"

The inanity of that question, more than anything, told me just how sick he was.

"No, Murdock, you're absolutely fine; that's why you're burning up and sweating like a pig. It's _also_ why I'm ordering you to stay here and rest while I go and talk to BA about something." _Something_ being the best way to keep this stubborn young captain from killing himself with overexertion, I added in the privacy of my own mind.

Actually, Murdock aside, I'd been meaning to check on BA anyway, since he'd taken something of a back seat in my priorities. A lot of that was necessity; with Murdock in his condition and Peck sulking, I hadn't had time to focus on my sergeant as well, and BA was tougher than most of the men in that camp, despite being younger than about half of them.

Chow didn't seem interested in interrogating him; either he didn't think BA knew anything or my sergeant had made such a lasting impression that even the VC were nervous of provoking a repeat performance.

I stepped up next to him. He half turned, saw it was me and turned away again.

"How're you holding up?" I asked him.

"Good. I guess."

"You guess, or you know?"

He didn't answer that directly; instead he glanced over his shoulder at the billet. "The captain still in there?"

I glanced around quickly before answering, just in case, then nodded. "Yeah."

The fact that Murdock hadn't tried to follow was half good, half worrying. Had he decided to stay put because he'd finally accepted that I was in control, or because he was too drained to do anything else?

"That's one heckuva kid, Hannibal. He got more guts than a slaughterhouse."

I agreed with that, although I thought BA calling Murdock a _kid_ was a little strong; there couldn't be that many years between them.

"How'd he manage to introduce himself to you without getting your fist in his face? I mean, with him being an officer."

"You know that ain't fair, Hannibal. I don't punch out _every_ officer I meet. Didn't punch _you_ out when we first met."

The memory of that was enough to put a grin on my face. "BA, when we first met, we were in adjoining cells in the stockade and you thought I was a private soldier, and that's not answering my question."

BA shrugged. "I punched Angel out, he come up an' shook my hand for it. Didn't really have time to think about punchin' him as well." A rare smile appeared on his face. "Besides, he ain't an easy guy to hate."

That was true, and approval was not a reaction BA got very often. At least, not for slugging officers; that was something even I wouldn't condone, and he knew it. Still, I'll say this much for the guy: if you treat him with respect, you'll get it back...once you've been doing it for long enough to convince him that you mean it.

There was a pause, then BA turned to look at me. "You think we gonna get out of this?"

I shrugged, the gesture conveying a nonchalance that I was far from feeling. "I don't know. I got out of a POW camp before, but that was in Korea and the men and I were a lot better fed." I considered this, then shrugged again. "On the other hand, the torture was a lot worse, so I guess it kinda balances out with this place."

"How'd you get out?"

"Dug." It was such a simple word, yet there was so much I wasn't telling him, like how we'd piled the dead bodies in the center of the camp and used them to hide the tunnel. The guards hadn't been nearly as vigilant as they were here, and we'd managed to get about a mile away before any serious pursuit had been mounted. We'd managed to find a US Army camp and I led my men into it, which led to their survival (at least some of them; others survived that camp only to die in the fighting) and my promotion to captain and transfer to a far better unit than the one I'd been serving in.

BA didn't push for answers; for all his belligerent attitude, he's a guy who knows how and when to mind his business.

"You know Murdock's running a fever?"

"No, but it don't surprise me. That kid been runnin' around all hours. Sometimes he even gets up in the middle of the night to go check on the men."

I stared at him. "Is that what he's doing?"

I'd been aware of Murdock's little excursions at night – sleeping next to someone does that, especially when they have to hobble and drag a broken leg over you to get outside – but had never thought to interfere, having assumed he needed a quick bathroom break.

"Sure is."

"I see." I looked back over my shoulder, checking that Murdock was where he was supposed to be, then at BA. "I've got a job for you, Sergeant."

"Yeah? What's that?"

I pointed toward the billet. "I want you to get back in there and make sure Murdock doesn't leave or even stand up." Remembering the captain's injuries, I added, "You can let him wriggle around on the cot until he finds a position that hurts the least, but – barring the occasional trip to Piss Alley – I do _not_ want him leaving that billet until I say otherwise. Is that understood?"

"What about you?"

I smiled slightly. "I have a few personal errands to run, BA. Shouldn't take me long."

He nodded – I've never had a salute from BA and I gave up expecting one about ten minutes after getting him transferred to my command – then turned and strode back to the billet.

* * *

**Okay, that's it for now :-) Sorry it took so long...hopefully things should settle around here soon and I can get back to writing more ;-) Anyway, hope you enjoyed this one and if you read, please review!**


	10. Potential Mobs

**Pua: **Thanks XD And...here ya go, one update ;)

**Taluliaka: **Thanks :) Yeah, Murdock can be dedicated to the point of idiocy sometimes ;) Poor guy...

**Lexicon:** I will indeed continue; I have two more stories planned after this one, so there's a lot more to come ;-)

**AzaelWolf: ***blushes* Thanks XD Yeah, most of the chapters are Hannibal POV; it's just the odd one where we slip into Face's mind ;)

**Seastarr:** Thanks :)

**Murdock Puppy Eye Attack:** Alright, here; as requested, I have updated :)

**zed:** Nah, Face really is shaving (he's not _that_ underage!)

**SGreenD: **Thanks :D Face...yeah, he'll get someone to trust, but not for a while ;-)

**sidhewolf: **Wow, thanks :D And no worries; it may take a short while between updates, but I won't leave this one unfinished ;)

**Q the omnipotent night fury:** Thanks :) Yeah, it's amazing how many Vietnam-era Team fics there are which turn out to be slash ::) I've never figured out why...

* * *

One of those 'personal errands' took me down Piss Alley myself, and when I came out, there was a POW waiting.

"Colonel?"

"Yes?" The fact that I had to scramble for his name (Marsters, my mind informed me after a few seconds' frantic searching) told me better than anything that Murdock was right. I _had_ been neglecting my men.

Marsters looked a little apprehensive.

"Sir...it's the men. Well. Uh. Some of them. Not me."

He seemed to think this had told me all I needed to know. I waited to see if any more would be forthcoming and then, when it seemed this wasn't going to be the case, said, "You want to try that explanation again, soldier?"

Marsters hesitated. "Some of the men want to talk to you, sir."

"About what?"

Pause. "I don't know, Colonel."

He was lying, which meant that whatever it was, I wasn't going to like it. I didn't call him to task though; poor kid was only the messenger.

"I see. Well, you can go back and tell whoever it is that if they want to talk to me, I'll be underneath the rambutan for the next fifteen minutes and they can come and see me there."

I strolled over to the shade of the tree, taking care not to hurry, sat down and waited, trying to ignore the gnawing hunger pangs in my stomach.

They came, of course, and they came in a group. They knew I wasn't squeamish about using violence; some of them had been there when I'd punched Sanders, after all. I was losing weight rapidly in this hell – we all were – but I hadn't been here as long as they had and so I still had enough left to make me a tough opponent if it came to a fight.

Unfortunately, they also knew that although I could take them down one by one, there was no way I'd be able to fight them all off at the same time.

Well, I guess it was my own fault. I hadn't made a point of staying out and about with the men and now they'd come to the conclusion that I was cowering in the officers' billet sobbing my little heart out in terror at the situation. No wonder they wanted to replace me. Hell, if I'd been among them, I wouldn't have been as patient as they seemed to have been.

I stood up as they approached, looking as relaxed as I could. In fact, I could feel my heart hammering away under my ribs. If it had just been the men, that would have been fine, but the two corporals Alvarez and Barrett were there, along with another corporal from B Barracks called Grady, and that _really _unnerved me. When you have a group of private soldiers or a group of NCOs, that's a delegation. But when you have a group of both standing together as equals...that's a potential riot mob. If I said or did the wrong thing (which does happen, although not as often to me as it does to most of my contemporaries) it could turn out very nasty.

"Well?" I was sure I'd got that much right at any rate.

Young stepped forward. He still had that air of brash arrogance about him, but there was a tiny hint of uncertainty now, just like I'd planned. The fact that they were here in response to my order gave me the psychological edge. It didn't matter that I'd ordered them to do something they'd been planning to do anyway; I'd given an order, they'd obeyed it and in doing so had put me in charge.

"What have you been doing about getting us out?"

"Absolutely nothing," I answered, with perfect truth. I'd been too occupied with Face and Murdock to turn my thoughts to any kind of escape plan. "But if you have any ideas about it, you know, some master plan to get all of us including the sick and wounded out of this camp, then I'd love to hear about it. And before you shout it out too loudly," I added, "I'm sure those guards standing behind the fence there and pretending not to eavesdrop would love to hear about it too."

Young, who had opened his mouth for a stinging (or at least immature) retort, shut it again and glared at me instead.

"Better. Now, before those guards decide to come in to find out exactly _why_ we're gathered here in one cozy and rather large group, I want everyone except Young and Barrett out of my sight right now. Move!"

Thank god, they did. They didn't move quickly, or far, but they moved.

"Right." One crisis dealt with, and only about another four hundred and eighty seven to go. I pointed at Young, wishing for the thousandth time that I had a cigar. "Private Young, shut your mouth and _keep_ it shut. You'll have your chance to say what you want later, but I've heard all I want to from you for the minute."

Young opened his mouth, caught a glare and a hard elbow in the ribs from me and Barrett respectively, and subsided into a sullen silence.

"I'll take that as a yes." I turned to Barrett. "Corporal? You want to tell me what that little stunt was all about?"

Barrett opened his mouth, closed it and then opened it again to say, "Sir?"

I waited, and when it became clear nothing more was going to be forthcoming, said, "_Sir_ is not an answer, Corporal. Now I want an explanation, I want it from _you_ and I want it five minutes ago! What the hell was that all about?"

Barrett's throat moved as he swallowed hard, then he said in a low voice, "I don't know, Colonel."

"You don't know." My voice was so quiet I noticed Young edging forward to hear better.

"No sir."

At least he had the guts to be honest about it. I could respect him for that much at least, although it didn't do much for my anger.

"Why not?" When he stayed silent, I went on. "Young here was the ringleader, I could see that much. There are two NCOs in his billet and you happen to be one of them. How in the _hell _could you not know what was going on?"

"How could _you_ not?" That was Young. I'd been wondering when he'd get around to disobeying me.

"Private, did you hear me tell you to keep your damn mouth _shut_?"

He stared at me, then shut it. I think it was finally starting to dawn on him that he'd underestimated me, and badly at that.

"Forget it again, soldier, and I'll have you running laps around this camp until the sun goes down." I turned to Barrett, devoutly hoping that Young wouldn't call me on that particular bluff. "Corporal, even assuming that you were blind and deaf enough not to know what a soldier under your command was doing or why he was doing it, what exactly were _you_ doing in the middle of that little group?"

I didn't think he'd have the balls to tell me to my face that he didn't want me as commanding officer and I was right; he shifted his weight and then said, "I don't know, sir."

"You don't know. I see. You just saw a group forming to kick up a stink about something, you didn't know what they were protesting about, but you thought you'd go and join in anyway. Is that how it happened?"

Barrett swallowed. I had him in a corner and we both knew it. I was a colonel and he was a corporal, and if I said that was how it happened, then that was how it happened.

"Yes sir."

"Pretty stupid, wasn't it? Joining a group of people like that without bothering to find out what had got them so excited in the first place?"

"Sir."

I held his gaze for a while longer before saying, "Alright, dismissed. Get back in your barracks and _stay_ there for the rest of the day. Both of you."

That was enough of a punishment in itself; the barracks got hot as hell in this place. I wasn't sure either of them would stick to the all day part of my punishment, but they walked away meekly enough and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Behind me, I heard one of the Vietnamese guards say something to the other, but didn't pay any attention. My grasp of the language wasn't too good, and anyway, even if they did report to Chow, what were they going to say? Hello sir, some of the POWs got together in a big group but the colonel chewed them out and so they all went away again?

I didn't think so, somehow.

When I got back to the officers' billet, I found to my surprise that Murdock had actually obeyed me and apart from sitting up, hadn't so much as moved. Then again, he'd have to be nuts to take on BA even if he'd been fully healthy, let alone battered half to death.

I raised my eyebrows. "Nice to see you can follow orders once in a while, Captain."

"BA was pretty clear, Colonel. I think his exact words were _you try an' go through that door, sucker, I'm gonna put your head right through that wall next to it_."

I chuckled. One of the things I like about BA is his way with words.

"How's your leg?"

"Painful, since I ain't allowed ta go outside an' talk ta people in order ta take my mind off it!"

"Don't try the guilt trip thing on me, Murdock; it doesn't work."

Murdock scrutinized me for a few seconds, then seemed to realize that I meant what I said; he nodded and said seriously, "Fair enough. Worth a try, Colonel. I still don't get why ya hafta sic this big ol' angry mudsucker on me."

"I have to sic this big old angry mudsucker on you, as you so eloquently put it, because I've given you plenty of chances to stay here when ordered and you've disobeyed me every single time. If you can't be trusted to look after yourself, then as your commanding officer it becomes my responsibility. Since I also have a responsibility to all those men out there and can't be with you twenty four seven, I assigned another soldier to guard you."

That earned me another of those oddly old-fashioned looks. "Can he _guard_ me from Charlie, Hannibal?"

"No." There was no point in lying to this kid; he knew the answer as well as I did. All the same, I made a mental note to talk to BA; there was a very good chance he'd try to do exactly that. I was thrilled he'd found another officer besides me he seemed to like (or at the very least, one he didn't want to punch into next Tuesday) but I wasn't going to let him indulge in any suicide missions. "But he can guard you from yourself, Murdock, and more to the point, he can guard you from _me_, because you don't want to know what I'd do if you went against me on this again."

Murdock shrugged. "Ain't gonna make him popular with the men."

That one wasn't going to work on me either. I folded my arms and stared down at him.

"Oh, is that right? Well, well, well; a drill sergeant who isn't going to make the finals for Mr Popularity. Whoever thought we'd see the day?"

"Colonel, I can't stay on this cot much longer. I gotta go."

I started to tell him that he wasn't going anywhere, then common sense made itself heard and I realized that wasn't the kind of going he'd had in mind.

"Alright. BA, take him outside."

Murdock glared at me. "I ain't that bad, Hannibal! I don't need the big guy's help to..." Much to my amusement, he trailed off and blushed cherry red. "Well..._you_ know."

I raised my eyebrows. "No, I know you don't need anyone's help to _you-know_, Captain, but you need help to get there. More to the point and based on your past behavior, you'll probably need some help to make sure you get _back_ as well."

The glare went up a few hundred degrees, but I didn't bother returning it. I knew BA would stick by him, and I _also_ knew the sergeant would probably take him around to talk to any of the men Murdock wanted. That was alright though. I wasn't trying to confine Murdock to barracks so much as stop him walking around on that leg of his. If BA was willing to take most of the captain's weight, I wasn't going to stop him.

After BA had hauled the captain upright and helped him hobble out of the tiny billet, I settled down on my cot to think things through. I'd have to go out again later today, circulate among the men. _Really_ circulate, not just show my face.

As I sat there working out a plan of action (or at least socialization) Face walked in, saw I was there and sat down on his cot with his back to me.

"How's it going, Lieutenant?"

Shrug.

He wasn't going to get off that easily. "You finished your daily walk, then?"

Nothing. It was true though; if Face wasn't in here having a global scale brood fest, then he was outside pacing around the camp. The VC guards had been a little wary of this at first, but they'd quickly come to realize that the American kid who walked the perimeter time and time again did just that – walk – and contented themselves with insulting him as he passed. Give the kid credit; I'd never seen him rise to any of those insults yet, although now that I think about it, that could just be because he didn't understand them.

"I tell you, kid, I'm starved. You think they're going to bring out that bread and rice anytime soon?"

Another shrug.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Oh well, maybe tomorrow."

Still nothing. I'd met VC operatives who were more sociable than this kid.

"So where're you from?"

Silence.

"Oh, you want me to guess, huh? Alright, let's see. Hawaii?"

Nothing.

"Not Hawaii. Hmm. Okay. How about...Texas?"

Again, nothing. Considering he had no Southern accent, we both knew it was just as likely he'd come from the moon, but I wasn't going to quit that early.

"Montana? Alaska? Louisiana? Ohio? Colorado?"

I'd finally gotten to him; Face pushed himself a little way up on one elbow and said without turning around, "California, okay? Now piss off."

I raised my eyebrows, then realized that my patented I'm-A-Senior-Officer look was wasted on the kid all the time he had his back to me.

"What was that?"

"Right. Sorry. I meant, _sir_, piss off, _sir_."

It was just as well he did have his back to me, since he missed the grin that spread across my face. That was the kind of line I might have come up with, if I'd been a kid with a bad attitude.

"You know, you could be a damn good soldier, kid, if you'd just lose the attitude and learn to take criticism once in a while."

Face turned a bitter look on me. Ugly though it made him, I think it was one of the few times he let me see through the masks to the angry, frightened kid inside. Or...no, _let_ is far too strong a word. I think his concentration was slipping and he didn't have the willpower to keep any of those masks in place for long.

"I had enough of that in boot camp."

I raised my eyebrows. "And did you think it was magically going to stop when you left? That the instant you graduated—where did you do your officer training, anyway?"

"OCS."

Damn. I'd been hoping he'd say West Point; that was where I'd trained and having that much in common with the kid might have opened him up a little. Like, say, maybe a quarter of an inch.

"Alright; OCS. Did you think that the instant you graduated OCS you would be the perfect officer? That you'd have nothing more to learn? That you'd never make a single mistake in the whole of your military career?"

He frowned, but it was in thought, not anger. "No."

"Really?" I shrugged. "Well, in that case, you came out of it a lot smarter than I did."

Face stared at me. "You...are you _kidding_?"

There was a suspicious note in his voice that I didn't much like, but I didn't let it show.

"No. No, I was all set to inspire men and become the youngest general in the history of the US Army. Of course, that was before someone pointed out that I was already two years too old for that particular distinction."

That got a small and very quick smile, just like I'd planned. It was gone so quickly that I'd have missed it if I hadn't been watching for it, but it was there. Junior officers like to know that they're not the first to make dumb mistakes; like to be reminded, in fact, that their senior officers were once juniors themselves.

"Yeah. Well." There was a pause which stretched on for so long I thought I'd have to be the one who broke it, then he spoke again. "You know...I'm not an idiot, Colonel. I _knew_ it was going to be tough. I knew joining the Army wasn't the soft option. I knew it was gonna be nothing but physical work, hard beds, bad food and verbal abuse. I just figured that if I was gonna get all that, you know, I might as well get paid for it."

Something about that last sentence struck me as odd, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"Did you think you were going to end up becoming an officer?"

"I didn't think I'd end up becoming any kinda soldier, to be honest, Colonel. I wanted to quit after the first day."

I grinned at that. "Well, if the recruits don't feel that way, then the drill sergeant isn't doing his job right. When I was stationed at Fort Benning, we sometimes had recruits trying to drop out in the first twenty four hours."

"Yeah. Well. I had nowhere else to go. I had to make it." He paused. I could see him thinking something out in his mind, then he spoke again. "Colonel?"

"Yes?"

"Is it true that if you've been in the Army for less than six months, you can't be given a dishonorable discharge?"

I raised my eyebrows, shifting my weight until I was a little more comfortable and wishing I had another cigar. "Peck, there is no possible way that _you_ could ever be given a dishonorable discharge."

He turned away, lip curled. "Don't patronize me, Hannibal."

"I'm not." I was a little surprised he didn't already know this, but I guess the boys back home had been too involved with training reinforcements and shipping them out to worry about niceties like military law. "Officers can't be given dishonorable discharges; we get a dismissal instead."

Face blinked. "What's the difference?"

"Besides the name? Not much."

"Oh. Alright, what about a dismissal then?"

I gave him a long look. "Thinking of leaving?"

The look I got in return mixed wariness with surprise. "Aren't you, Colonel? After all this, I mean."

"I like the Army, kid. I was an Army brat and I've been a soldier for so long, I'm not sure I even know how to be a civilian. And no, it's not true that you can't get a dismissal until six months have passed; it's just a little unusual for it to happen."

I could see him thinking this over before he said, "So how do I get one?"

"It's not a good thing to get, Lieutenant."

"But it means I can go home, right? Right?"

"It means you'd be _sent_ home in disgrace. Maybe spend some time in the stockade as well."

"But I'd be back at home?"

I sighed. "Yeah, Face, you'd be back at home. You might have trouble getting a job with a dismissal hanging over you, but you'd be back at home. But you should at least try to stick this out. It's only for three years."

"_Three years_?" Face gaped at me, eyes huge.

"Didn't your recruiter tell you that?" I'd be very surprised to learn that the answer was _no_; the Army wasn't as rabid about correct recruiting policy as it later became (and there was a war on; they needed every able-bodied citizen they could get) but blatantly lying to potential recruits just to get them on that bus was still a court-martial offense.

Face went scarlet. "Uh. Maybe. I was kinda in a hurry...I just wanted to enlist, you know? Yeah. Serve my country. And...uh..."

I raised skeptical eyebrows. "You really don't strike me as a patriot, kid."

He shrugged. "Well. Anyway. He probably did mention it, but I wasn't listening. For me it was more like _yeah, yeah, I get it, great opportunities, a chance to learn a trade, yadda yadda yadda, now cut the crap and tell me where to sign_. I was kinda disappointed he didn't throw me on a bus straight out of his office."

I grinned, leaning back against the wall. "Yeah. You'd be surprised how many new recruits think they'll be going straight to boot camp the minute they leave their recruiter's."

Beat.

"Did you?"

I shook my head. "No, but only because I was an Army brat. Anyway, I went to the Army via West Point, so it was a little different for me."

Face frowned, sitting more upright. "West Point? Wasn't there some kinda scandal there?"

I was surprised he'd heard of that, considering the only scandal I knew of had happened in nineteen fifty one, and Face didn't strike me as the kind to take an interest in the past affairs of a military college he'd never been to.

"Yes."

I could see him wondering just how far he dared to push me, then he chanced it.

"Were you...?"

"I was there at the time, but I wasn't involved in it. I'm not a cheat, kid, whatever my other faults. I _earn_ my D-grades."

There was a small twitch in Face's expression. I'm not sure it could be called a grin; more like the beginning of one. I thought he was relaxed enough for me to risk another question and so I did.

"You know, you never told me: what's your military specialty?"

"I'm not sure. I mean, there wasn't really much time to train us; we just got shipped out. They give the medics and comms guys a crash course, but that's it. I'm just glad I made it to OCS; at least I got a little more training to get me ready for combat."

I raised an eyebrow. "And are you?"

Face shrugged. "Is anyone?"

Smart answer. I'd have to keep an eye on this kid. I was dreading the moment when Chow took Face away for his first interrogation (at least, his first here; the kid would have had a pretty thorough going over before the VC shipped him out to join us).

Something in Face's closed expression told me that the conversation – or that part of the conversation which involved him talking to me – was over. Not wanting to push too hard, I got to my feet and headed outside again. Following Young's little wannabe rebellion, I was feeling a little restless and so I decided to go and check on Allen.

Allen had been kept away from the men, but the men hadn't been so strict about keeping away from _him_ and there was usually someone with him. In this case, Private Tennon, who saw me coming a little too late, attempted to jump to attention and salute, tripped over his own feet and crashed into me.

"At ease, remember? I'm not after parade ground behavior, son, not unless I need to rip you a new one for some reason." I helped him get more or less upright again, then nodded toward Allen. "How bad is he?"

"It's hard to tell, Colonel. Sometimes he seems fine, and other times..." Tennon shook his head. "Most of the time he's just unconscious."

That was a blessing, at least from Allen's point of view.

"Anyone else look like they're coming down with it?"

"No sir, but this thing seems to hit pretty quick."

And _that_ was the understatement of the century. Allen had seemed fine when I'd first met him, and that couldn't have been more than a week ago, although I was already losing track of how long I'd been here.

"Alright. Take off for a few minutes; I want to talk to Allen."

Tennon didn't look too happy about that, but he obeyed. Bending down, I picked up the cup of water that someone had stashed under the cot and poured some of it over Allen's forehead and a little more into his mouth.

I'm not sure which of those revived him but one of them did; he stirred a little and mumbled something I couldn't catch.

"How're you doing, Corporal?" I kept my voice low. Poor guy probably had the mother of all headaches.

Allen opened his eyes and stared at me. Or at least in my general direction; whether he actually saw and recognized me was debatable.

"Allen?" I lowered my voice, making it more intense. "Do you know who I am?"

No answer. There was a sickly gray tint to his skin that I didn't like the look of. Sliding my arm under his shoulders, I lifted him upright and tipped some more of that water down his throat. I doubted it would do any good, to be honest, but at least it was better than nothing.

"When we get out of here, I'll see you're sent to somewhere like Hawaii for some R&R, soldier, and that's a promise."

It was a dangerous promise to make – I wasn't Allen's CO and so technically speaking I didn't have the authority to send him anywhere, much less Hawaii – but I guess it doesn't matter since I never had to worry about keeping it. By the afternoon, Allen had taken a serious turn for the worse, and by early evening he was dead.

* * *

**Okay, so that's it for now. Next up, we're back inside Face's head ;) Sorry for the long wait (man, writer's block sucks!) and hope you enjoyed it :)**


	11. Nothing and No One

**Bubzchoc:** Thanks :)

**Laura:**Alright, one update, as you requested ;)

**Q****the****omnipotent****night****fury:** Okay, here. Hopefully this'll help your week again ;) And thanks :D

**SGreenD:**Thanks :) Face...well, he'll find someone eventually, but these things take time ;)

* * *

**FACE**

Alright. Now I was _really_ pissed.

For once, it wasn't at Hannibal. Instead I was pissed at myself for letting him know so much about me. I couldn't blame him, no matter how much I wanted to. He hadn't beaten any of the answers out of me – although the way he'd gotten my home state out of me could be considered nagging – and he _really_ hadn't forced me to start that crap about dishonorable discharges.

I wasn't too mad at him for spotting I was underage. I've always looked a little younger than I am, and I wasn't arrogant enough to believe I was the only kid who enlisted while a year or two short of the legal requirement. Hannibal had probably seen quite a few of those himself, although I doubted he'd been one of them. I don't know for sure, but I think West Point checks an applicant's background a little more thoroughly than some recruiter in New York. Probably he hadn't even cared if I was underage.

I hooked my thumbs into my waistband and frowned, wondering what happened to recruiters who knowingly enlisted underage kids. Probably wouldn't be good. I'd zoned out in most talks about military law and regulations, only taking in enough to know how to bend those same regs, but I thought a recruiter who pulled a stunt like that would face at least a court martial. I wasn't sure though; didn't know enough about how the Army worked. Hannibal would probably have told me – I couldn't be the first recruit to pass through that guy's hands, not if he was a colonel – but he was too smart for me to risk asking him. Even if I went in on the _I __got __a __soldier __in __my __unit __and __I __think __he's __underage_ angle, something told me he'd see through that in an instant; after all, how many times do senior officers hear the _soldier __in __my __unit_ story? I'll give you a hint: it's probably about as many times as pharmacists hear the one about you buying condoms for your friend. Or brother.

As far as the Army went, I didn't care whether they sent me home with a dismissal, dishonorable discharge or a goddamn pension. I _did_, however, care about not walking into some kind of welcoming committee at the other end. Was it a crime to enlist at sixteen? Or put it another way, was it a crime that carried any kind of prison sentence?

Now that I thought about it, if I turned eighteen in the Army, would my enlisting while underage still count? Or would they say that I was of age now, and so therefore they were going to hang onto me regardless? Would they say that since I was underage, the time I'd already served wouldn't count and so I'd have to serve another three years starting from eighteen?

I guess you can see why I wasn't going to admit to how young I was. Even I'd been amazed at how easy it had been to lie my way into the US Army. I guess they were getting pretty desperate with the war, too desperate to double-check...not that there was anyone they could check _with_. I'd simply added two years onto my age, making myself eighteen, and a short while later emerged as a fully fledged junior officer in the jungle hothouse from hell with the commanding officer from hell to match (no, I'm not talking about Hannibal Smith).

With all that in mind, though, it was _not_ a good time for the VC to decide they wanted a word with me.

I didn't get any of the niceties Hannibal had described, such as a bowl of food to soften me up. Guess they didn't waste that on lowly lieutenants like me...or now that I think about it, maybe they just didn't like people who beat up the commandant's pet. Instead I was grabbed and dragged into the HQ before I really knew what was happening, into a room with three other VC. My 'escorts' threw me onto the ground, added a kick or two for good measure, then walked out and left me.

"This is the new American officer?" The voice was cold, clipped. A hand gripped what little hair I had (it was starting to grow out of the buzz cut) and yanked my head up. Chow – it had to be him, no one else in the room had that air of authority – stared at me for a few minutes, then snorted. "You look very young to be in command. How old are you?"

I didn't answer immediately, although I did start to worry. For _Chow_ to pick up on my youth when the Vietnamese themselves – on both sides; it was about the only thing they all seemed to agree on – admitted they found it very difficult to age a Westerner...maybe I should do a little work on disguising my age. A couple days' worth of beard might help.

Still, if I didn't tell Smith my real age, there was no way I'd tell this guy. After all, Chow was The Enemy. So was Hannibal Smith, of course, but in a different way; while I didn't trust that colonel as far as I could throw him, I was fairly sure he wasn't going to try and torture answers out of me.

I pushed myself to my feet and two of the VC grabbed one of my arms each, immobilizing me and leaving most of my back and front exposed.

"I'll answer one of your questions, General, if you answer one of mine." That couldn't hurt. After all, I hadn't promised to answer _truthfully_.

Chow studied me for a few minutes. I think he'd come to the same conclusion – that he could lie easily enough – and I also think he was curious to know what an American soldier in no position to get the word to his buddies could possibly want to ask him about.

"Alright. Ask your question."

"What are your views on Communism?"

I might as well have dropped my pants. Chow's jaw dropped before he could stop it and I found myself wishing I could see that same shocked, stunned expression on Smith's face, just once.

"I mean, do you really believe in it, or are you just paying the guys up top lip service?"

He recovered quickly, I had to give him that much. Before I had time to think up another question, his face was back to that cold mask.

"My political views are none of your concern. I sent for you in particular because today I have received something from one of my colleagues."

I leered at him. "Something to keep you warm at night?"

"Two." Chow's voice was calm, indifferent, and I found myself wondering _Two __what? _before something slashed across my back. Twice. It probably wasn't all that hard, but me being unprepared for it meant that it felt a lot worse than it was.

When I'd stopped squirming, Chow continued in that same level tone.

"This is a report which says you were captured leading a patrol just outside Hanoi. Where were you going?"

I glowered, hate and anger burning hot enough to cut through the pain.

"The Temple of Literature. We'd been sent to buy souvenirs for the folks back home."

Chow didn't so much as twitch. "Try again."

"The park. You know, that really big one with a lake in it. It's been hot out; we decided we wanted to do a little skinny-dipping, maybe piss in a few bushes."

I don't know what they hit me with for saying that. A stick or a baseball bat (did they have baseball in Vietnam?) perhaps. I felt it crunch into my ribs and the whole world went gray. I didn't lose consciousness though, which was a pity; if I had, I wouldn't have felt the stick/baseball bat/who-the-hell-cares slam into me again. This time whoever was holding it hit me hard in the thigh muscle and I screamed as pain rocketed down my leg.

"Drop him."

My captors obliged, not only dropping me but stepping out of the way so I couldn't grab onto them. My leg buckled under me and I fell sideways, hitting my head hard on the floor. Stars danced crazily in front of my eyes and for a moment all I could do was lie there and curl up around the pain, one hand on my ribs, one on my leg.

"Get up." Chow's voice was hard, clipped. When I didn't obey fast enough to suit him, he stepped forward and delivered a hard kick to my stomach. "_Up_! Now!"

I forced my body to obey, although my ribs were now howling blue murder and I felt sick and dizzy.

"This was sent to you." Chow held up a rather battered looking brown envelope. "Although naturally it came to me first."

"Really?" Somehow I managed to paste a surprised look on my face, striving for a casual tone. "Neat. I never had a secretary before. Though I was kinda hoping my first one would be blonde and a little more developed across the chest, maybe with a little—"

The backhand blow across my jaw cut off that particular line of conversation, although I felt a tiny part of me stuff it into my daydream cabinet for future reference.

"It is from your country." Chow turned it around to show me the US stamp on the envelope. "Addressed to you. I read the letter inside; it was sent by your parents."

Not a bad lie, really. It might even have worked except for two tiny flaws: one, overseas letters and packages to US soldiers don't require stamps. Even I knew that much (one of the other recruits had asked about it at boot camp). I kept that one to myself, but being the wonderful team player and all around nice guy that I am, I decided to point the second flaw out to Chow as tactfully as I could.

"Yeah?" I could hear my voice grating in my chest, the way it always does when I get really mad. "What'd you do, hook up a Ouija board?"

I could see that didn't mean much to him – did they even _have_ Ouija boards in Vietnam? – and so I went into a little more detail.

"I'm an _orphan_, asshole! Yeah, that's right," I added upon seeing his expression. "Doesn't really fit in with your _concerned __mommy __and __daddy_ crap, does it? What's next, Chow? A message from my long-lost twin brother who I didn't know I had but who just _happened_ to guess my unit and location by an amazing stroke of luck?"

Chow stared at me for a second, then turned to the guard. "Get him out of here."

No way was I gonna let him go that easy. "Hey Chow!"

He turned back, and I spat at him. Kinda childish, I guess, and it didn't even hit him (hey, it was the first time I'd ever tried it; I was just glad it flew and didn't end up dangling off my lip) but man, was it ever satisfying. I'd finally found someone who I could yell at, insult and pick a fight with and _not_ get in trouble!

At that point one of his little (or not so little) pets stepped forward and punched me in the face so hard everything went black.

* * *

When I came back to myself, I was lying on the ground and something wet was dribbling over my head and neck. I didn't know what it was, but it was cool and soothing and didn't smell like piss and so I let it keep dribbling.

A hand turned my head to one side and I winced away from it.

"It's okay, kid. It's okay. You're back."

Back where? I forced my eyes open, and came face to face – or rather, face to knee – with Tennon. Somehow I didn't think he was the one who'd called me _kid_. I turned my head to the other side and saw that Hannibal the Always-Right was there, along with his faithful little (or not so little) shadow Baracus. I wasn't too pleased to see either of them, but whatever they were plotting, at least I could be certain that they weren't in cahoots with Chow and his lackeys. That probably meant today's round of Let's-Play-Torturer was over.

Hannibal handed the cup he'd been pouring over me to Tennon, then sat back on his haunches.

"How are you feeling, Lieutenant?"

"Fine." The lie came automatically to my lips without my having to think about it.

Hannibal and BA exchanged looks. I guess I couldn't blame them for not believing me. Even without a mirror, I was sure I didn't look _fine_.

"I'll ask you again. How are you feeling?"

"I _said_ I'm fine! Get away from me!" I tried to shove him away, but a wave of dizziness swept over me and I collapsed, shaking all over. The pain in my leg had subsided to a dull throb, but my ribs were still agony and I thought some of them might be cracked.

I was expecting Hannibal to say something like _come __on, __BA, __he __says __he's __fine __so __let's __leave __him __there_ (and again, I don't think I would have blamed him) but instead he reached out and helped me sit more or less upright, supporting my weight with one arm behind my shoulders. Not that I _needed_ his support, of course, but it was still helpful.

"BA, get him some water."

"Don't _want_ water!"

"Oh, don't worry, kid; it's coming out of your daily ration. I wouldn't want any rumors going around that you were pulling rank on the men and forcing them to give up their water to you."

"What?" I tried to glare at him but my eyes wouldn't focus. Alright, I'd be the first to admit I wasn't shaping up to be a particularly good officer, but I damn well wasn't a bully either! "Just what kind of a jerk do you think I am?"

Hannibal raised an eyebrow and reached up to take a cup of water from BA. "The thirsty kind, Lieutenant. Thanks, BA."

He held it to my lips. I wanted to bat it away, wanted to tell him that I didn't need anyone's charity – least of all his – but my body had other ideas and I'd sucked half of that water into my mouth and down my throat before it was taken away from me. I tried to grab it back and failed.

"Lieutenant, you can have it all, but sip it _slowly_ or I'll take it away from you. I'm not wasting good water on you just to have you throw it up again."

Hannibal again. Always Hannibal. First he was telling me what to call him (I hadn't seen any of the _other_ soldiers get the _call-me-sir_ routine, although I was the newest arrival; maybe they just suffered it before I showed up). Then he was telling me what _he_ would call _me_, and now he was telling me how I was supposed to _drink _while under his command!

"Screw you." I'd managed to get enough of the water down my throat to make my voice more than a croak, but talking still hurt.

"I didn't hear that, Peck."

"I said _screw __you_!" I was sure he'd heard it that time. I mean, I saw Ferguson look up in surprise and he was way over on the other side of the camp.

Another tantalizing swallow of water before Hannibal took it away from me again, holding it just out of reach.

"Kid, if you don't start speaking to me – and all the men, for that matter – nicely, I may just find someone who deserves this water more than you do."

That had to be a bluff, right? Hannibal didn't strike me as that sadistic, whatever his other faults.

I hesitated. He might not be a sadist but he didn't seem like much of a bluffer either, and in spite of what I'd said earlier, I wanted that water. I _really_ wanted that water, only my arms were too clumsy after everything I'd gone through to be of much help in snatching it. Stupid arms.

"Alright. _Fine_." I knew what he was really saying: be a good little boy, feed my ego by telling me how wonderful I am and maybe I'll reward you with a little water. Well, I could play it that way too, although Hannibal goddamn Smith was going right to the top of my hit list for this little humiliation.

Clearing my throat, I began. "Colonel, you are without a doubt _the_ most amazing commanding officer I have ever had the honor of serving under. I am _so_ grateful I got a chance to meet you in person. I mean, if that VC patrol hadn't ambushed my patrol, shot all of my men and taken me prisoner, just _think_ what I would have missed. You're a wonderful, intelligent and extremely good-looking officer, and I am truly in awe of your supreme leadership skills." Part of me was beginning to have fun with this and get a little carried away with it, which was why I went further than I should have done. "I plan to put in a request to be transferred to your command permanently, so that I may bask in your greatness for the duration of this war. And if that request is denied, well, then my life won't be worth living, at which point I will either shoot myself or..." My voice tailed off. I'd been about to say _jump __off __the __nearest __tall __building_, but the words froze in my throat. It had been six years, but I still remembered Tommy Mendoza, how he'd taken it into his head to jump off the orphanage roof. Headfirst, just so he could be sure of breaking his skull as opposed to both his legs. Above all, I remembered the _mess_ he made. I know that sounds like a callous way of speaking about a fourteen year old kid who never did me any harm, but it's also the truth.

"Go on, Peck." There was a hard bite to Hannibal's tone that I didn't quite understand. Alright, maybe I'd overdone the groveling a tad, but did he really expect me to _mean_ all that crap as well as say it? "You were doing pretty good up to that point."

"Just give me the damn water, Smith!" Before he could humiliate me further by making me beg for it, I added, "_Please_."

He regarded me in silence for a few seconds, then passed it over. "All you had to do was ask, Lieutenant. But I meant what I said; drink slowly."

I took a long swallow to ease my throat – sucking up was thirsty work – and then another, smaller one and waited. Not because I was doing what Hannibal Smith told me, but because...well, because...look, I wasn't doing what he told me, okay?

He waited until I'd finished drinking before he spoke again.

"I'll let all that crap you just shoveled at me slide this once, Peck, because you obviously don't know me too well yet. For future reference, though, I don't like whiny, cowardly little kiss-asses, and if you ever try that act on me again – with or without the sarcasm – you'll get to find out just how much I don't like them. You were more eloquent than most, I'll give you that, but still...consider yourself warned, kid."

I didn't really get what he was talking about. I think it's safe to say that at that point, I was extremely confused. First he told me to be nice and suck up to him, then he tried to chew me out for it. Was he ever going to make up his mind?

"C'mon. I'll help you back to the billet."

"Don't—"

"I know, kid; you don't want my help. That doesn't mean you don't _need_ it." He half helped, half lifted me to my feet.

"What time is it?" I asked stupidly as we started walking toward the billet. At least, Hannibal walked. I hobbled.

"Early evening; you were unconscious for quite a time, Lieutenant. Beyond that, I've no idea."

We walked/hobbled the rest of the way in silence until we got to the billet. I managed to lower myself onto my cot without his help. My head was still pounding angrily and I just wanted to curl up and sleep forever.

There was something I had to say first, though, something that wouldn't let me rest until I'd gotten it straight in my mind.

"Colonel?"

"Yes?"

I hesitated, wondering how best to put my question and decided, for a change, to try being open.

"When you said you didn't like people saying...well, the kinda stuff I said, you didn't really mean it, did you?"

Hannibal glanced at me, no trace of humor in his face. "Of course I did. The only thing you'll get by licking my boots is a kick in the face."

I liked the way he put that, although I'd have died rather than told him. Something told me he wasn't angry with me for asking, that I could push this a little farther, and so I did.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Well, while I don't object to being told I'm wonderful, intelligent and extremely good-looking, I don't much like people thinking I'm stupid enough to be taken in by flattery."

"_You_ were the one who said I had to speak to you nicely, Colonel."

"I said be nice, not nauseating. All you had to do was say _please_."

I didn't answer. Much as I hated letting Smith the Smug think he'd scored a point off me, I couldn't really argue with what he'd just said. I'd even made myself feel a little sick; who knows how it made him feel?

"You must've heard of officers who couldn't be sucked up to," Hannibal pressed.

I didn't mind talking to him about my Army experiences so much – those, at least, I thought he could understand – and so I shrugged.

"Sure I did, Colonel. I've also heard of mermaids and unicorns." I started to say that I hadn't believed in those either, but a low creaking sound cut me off. "What..."

Hannibal turned to look out the door, frowning. "Sounds like they're bringing someone new in." He glanced over his shoulder at me. "You didn't happen to hear them talking, did you?"

I shook my head. "Not about that. I heard a couple of them muttering in Vietnamese before Chow got started, but I've no idea what they were saying."

I managed to hoist myself back onto my feet and staggered over to join him just as the gate squealed closed again. He was right; there was a new guy lying on the ground struggling to push himself upright.

I took a closer look as the dying light glinted off something metal. The guy was wearing something around his neck; I think it was a crucifix, although I couldn't get close enough to see. That could really be worth something. Not necessarily money, but favors from him...if he 'lost' it and I was the one to find it, chances are he'd be pretty grateful.

I was just working out how many times I could 'find' it before he was likely to get suspicious when a heavy hand crashed down onto my shoulder.

"Don't even _think_ about it," Hannibal told me in an undertone.

I put as much innocence into my face and voice as I could, which was a dead giveaway in itself. "What?"

I attempted to brush Hannibal's arm aside. It was like trying to brush aside a steel bar.

"You know what."

Ignoring this, I turned my head, following the guy with the crucifix as he dragged himself further away from the gate. I wasn't even aware I was doing it until I felt fingers digging into my shoulder as Hannibal tightened his grip until his knuckles went white.

"Lieutenant..." It was a steel warning, right in my ear.

"_Ow_! Okay, okay! Jeez, Hannibal!" I pulled away and this time he let me go as I turned to glare at him, massaging my bruised shoulder. "Don't you think I got enough of this treatment from Charlie up there without you getting in on the act?"

His stern gaze never wavered as he answered, "Don't you think that poor guy's going to suffer enough pain and anxiety without _you_ getting in on the act? Besides, the VC'll take any jewelry and personal belongings they find. Just ask BA."

I turned up the glare. "Why do you even care what I do, Hannibal? What's it to you?"

"Someone has to, Lieutenant, since you don't seem to care about yourself."

Okay. That was it. I walked back to my cot and lay back down on it, turning my back on the colonel under the pretense of rolling over. I don't think it fooled him any more than it did me, but I was past caring. Let the others welcome this new guy; I was _through_. Through with Smith, through with...with everything!

There was a slight problem with that, though; my usual defense of leaving people before they left me wasn't going to work with Smith, simply because in a POW camp there was nowhere for me to go. I was stuck until the VC decided to kill one of us...and I had a feeling that _one __of __us_ was going to be me. A colonel was far too valuable a prize for them to just write him off.

Whatever. I knew Smith was just the same as the others. He'd make sure to try and keep me alive because that was his job, but I wasn't dumb enough to think I actually mattered to him.

I glowered at an unconscious Murdock (not for any particular reason; he just happened to be in my line of sight). Nothing was going to crack me. Nothing and no one.

_No __one_.

* * *

**Okay, sorry for the wait...next chapter we're back with Hannibal (and that's half written, so it should be up much sooner ;)) In the meantime, hope you enjoyed this one and if you read, please review!**


	12. Filling In

**Lexicon:** Yep, you got it ;)

**Q the omnipotent night fury:** Thanks :) Ooh, Decker...now that's an idea ;) Maybe if I'd thought of it, it would have been :P

**SchiutoW:** Thanks :D And one next chapter, as requested ;)

**LW: ***blushes* Thanks :) Sorry for the wait; I had a lot of family problems over Christmas.

**Josta:** Thanks XD

(Everyone else, feel free to skip to the story; the following was a very long review which required an even longer answer, and since it was anonymous, I wasn't able to answer it privately).

**a:** First of all, no. I didn't put an AU warning at the beginning, because this is not an AU fic, nor could it be considered one by any stretch of the imagination. Having Face grow up in New York as opposed to LA (which I haven't done; either read on or read Chapter Ten again) really isn't enough to qualify it as AU. An AU fic changes something which then changes the way the series pans out; the fact that Face grew up in LA is irrelevant. It wasn't why he went into the Army, it wasn't why he was arrested, it wasn't why he went on the run, it wasn't what enabled the A-Team to band together and help out the little guys, therefore changing it would make this story uncanonical, but not AU. (Example of AU fic: _Hannibal retires from the Army after Korea, adopts Face from the orphanage and Murdock turns out to be a friend Face makes at high school_; or _The A-Team is found innocent after Vietnam, they still decide to help people but don't have the Army breathing down their necks_). Even if I had changed Face's hometown for some obscure reason, doing so would only make this story AU if Face growing up in New York somehow caused things for A-Team to pan out differently.

_I really don't get the whole Face is supposed to have signed up underage thing...Face supposedly enlisted (in TV cannon) while rebounding from a break-up with his college girlfriend (the only girl he was ever serious about)..._

First, there's no canon that says Face didn't enlist while underage, so it's really up to the viewer to decide. And yes, I know about the whole Leslie-and-college thing; that fits in with this fic, and how and why it all fits together will be addressed in time. As for the actor not looking that young, the series is set ten years after them robbing the Bank of Hanoi, which happens a few years after they were in the camps (again, it's never stated exactly when they were in those camps, but we know that Hannibal and Face went on R&R together to Hawaii in 1969 from the episode Beast from the Belly of a Boeing, and that they robbed the back in 1972/3 – depending on which episode you watch; the intro for a few of them did get the years muddled) This would mean a gap of at least thirteen years between their first meeting and the start of the series, so of course the Face on the TV show isn't going to look like a fresh-faced teenager ;)

_I also don't recall Face being nearly as bitter about the orphan thing as he's often portrayed in fanfics, but I suppose that's a matter of interpretation..._

You're jumping the gun a little here. Actually, I'll rephrase that; you're jumping it a _lot, _not to mention reading too much into things. I don't remember him saying in this fic that he's bitter about being an orphan. He does have a few things to be bitter and resentful about, which will be explained...also, bear in mind that Leslie and everything else that happened months ago (in the story) as opposed to the years that had passed in the TV show, so it's a lot fresher in his mind. While he's not bitter about being an orphan, he's never quite comfortable sharing it with all and sundry; remember the episode _In Plane Sight_? Although he tells Mrs Hicks that he's an orphan, he's very hesitant about it.

If you're talking about Face's comment to Chow about his being an orphan – I admit I'm guessing, since you've mentioned all these OOC things that Face supposedly thought/said/did/was in this fic without bothering to back any of them up with examples from the fic itself – then as you yourself said, he wanted a family of his own, and Chow's mistake in thinking he had one and trying to trick Face into believing that the package was from the family he never got to have would have touched a pretty raw nerve. He's angry about someone attempting to trick him in this way, but not bitter about it. Besides, why would Face have any reason to speak politely to Chow, given the treatment he'd just received from him?

I also never wrote that Face hated the priests and nuns at the orphanage; really not sure where you got that one from. Granted there is a backstory between him and one nun hinted at but yet to be explained in this fic – and yes, it will be explained – but one nun out of...how many? Hardly equates to hating them all. I hated one teacher at my school, but was fairly happy at the school itself.

Your saying he speaks highly of them is an exaggeration; the only one he really seems to still care about is Father Maghill – incidentally, it's likely that it's one or two people, rather than the orphanage, who Face keeps up to date on his movements and location. Staff at orphanages change, and he wouldn't want complete strangers knowing where he was. In the pilot episode, when Face goes to visit the priest in hospital, he says _You're the only one who ever invested anything in me, apart from Hannibal_ (maybe not exact, but close enough).

The point is, he uses the singular: the only ONE, not the only ONES, meaning that he doesn't feel the same way about the rest of the priests and nuns. He speaks highly of that priest, but never mentions the others, either to praise or condemn them.

Again, all these things you brought up will be covered, but right now Face is trapped in a Viet Cong death camp, the love of his life abandoned him without a word of explanation a few months ago, and from a story point of view, he's got other things on his mind besides gee, those nuns and priests at the orphanage sure were a great bunch! Yeah, I remember Sister So-and-so bringing me candy that time, and Father Whatsisname buying me all those comic books for my birthday. To be honest, your comments on this would have been far more appropriate at the end of the story, if none of the issues had been addressed by then, or if I'd written a chapter at any point where Face angsts about how much he hated the orphanage and how cruel and abusive everyone there was. For the record, I don't buy into that version of events since, as you pointed out, there's too much canon evidence against it. I don't believe he had a lovely, happy childhood growing up in the orphanage, but I also don't believe that he had an abusive one either.

_Also, the show made it pretty clear that Face grew up in LA, not New York._

Yes, I know. He grew up in LA here too. If you reread the last chapter, you'll notice he says he _enlisted_ in New York. He never claims to have grown up there, and when Hannibal asks Face where he's from in Chapter Ten, Face tells him the truth, that he's from California. Alright, it's not quite as specific as LA, but it sure ain't New York either ;)

As for the whole concept of New York, watch the episode _Moving Targets _again; when Face is talking with the princess, she mentions a disco in New York, and Face returns, "What, the one on X Street" (okay, can't remember the exact quote, but you get the idea). Given that an orphanage in LA to a disco in New York would be quite some commute, and that not many discos reach national fame, it's a fair assumption that Face spent some time in that city. Since it's likely he went straight from the orphanage into college, and straight from college into the Army (at least, that's the impression I got from _Only Church in Town_) then it's not unreasonable to assume that his recruiter was based in New York. We also know that the Team went to LA after escaping Fort Bragg, and I find it hard to believe that they would have stopped in New York for Face to sample the local nightlife.

Therefore, the most likely scenario is that he was in New York between the orphanage and the Army, ie, college. If he was going to enlist, why on earth would he go all the way back to LA to do so? There must be an army recruitment office in or near New York (alright, I admit I've never been there, but it's not too unbelievable an assumption to make ;))

_Face is acting radically OOC in this fic_

That's a very strange accusation to make, since there's no A-Team canon which deals with the Vietnam war and so therefore there's no IC behavior from the Team's time in that war to compare it to. You seem to expect Face to act like the suave, cool, confident guy in his thirties that you see in the TV show, and that's never going to happen in this setting. A kid who's just received the emotional blow of a lifetime (ie, Leslie) and who has found himself in the middle of a war zone and in a death camp to boot is _not_ going to be acting like someone over ten years older!

All that aside, I'm glad that you like the fic, even if you do think Face is radically OOC (and thank you for taking the time to explain _why_ you don't like parts of it, instead of just writing a review along the lines of _ur version of face sux go die_ :)) but you should at least wait until the end of the story to find out why Face at this young age hasn't yet matured into the suave, confident guy he is over ten years later – besides the obvious answer that people change a lot in ten years – and to develop his character and his trust in the rest of the guys. Right now, like I said, he's scared as hell, he's nursing a lot of pain from Leslie and one or two other things, none of which were really an issue in the TV series (_Only Church in Town_ excepting) and that's all going to show. Bear in mind this, or any Vietnam-era fic for that matter, doesn't deal with Face as he is in the TV show, but as he _was_ as a scared, hurting kid in the middle of a war.

If by the end of the story you still feel Face is acting very OOC and hasn't changed in the slightest, well, at that point we'll just have to agree to disagree.

* * *

**HANNIBAL**

The new guy was still crawling when I reached him, and I realized this wasn't just because he was too dazed to walk, but because his left leg was broken. I was no medic, but even I could tell that much.

I dropped onto one knee next to him and took hold of his shoulders, holding him in place. I'm not sure he knew where he was; he was just acting on his instincts, which were telling him to get away.

I glanced at Gabney, who was the nearest soldier and who didn't seem much inclined to help our new friend.

"Get him into A Barracks," I ordered. I knew there was a space in there, since Allen's dying had freed one up.

Gabney stepped forward and helped me lift the newcomer up. There wasn't much point in either of us talking to him – he was barely conscious as it was – and so we half supported, half carried him across the camp in silence.

Halfway there, I relinquished my half of the soldier to Tennon – as an officer, it was best I stayed out the men's billets as much as I could – and stepped back. I'd talk to this new guy later, once he'd recovered enough to have some kind of conversation.

"Colonel?"

I turned. "Yes?"

Ferguson stepped forward. "Where exactly does Lieutenant Peck fit in with us? So far all he's done is walk around without saying more than two words to any of us. Can we trust the guy or not?"

I smiled a little. I was starting to like Ferguson. He was a hothead, but he seemed to be a solid one. The kind of guy who would scream abuse at the enemy in a firefight, but who would never even think about deserting his unit. I also admired him for having the balls to confront me, as well as the ability to do so tactfully. He'd make one hell of a good sergeant one day.

"Lieutenant Peck is under a lot of stress." I had no idea just how true that was at the time, but it made a good excuse. "He's not another Angel, if that's what you're concerned about. I don't want any of you giving him any trouble, but if you have any other concerns, bring them to me, not him and not to Murdock either. He's got enough to deal with trying to make it through this."

Ferguson opened his mouth, hesitated and shut it again.

"Problem?" I inquired.

"No, Colonel. It's just..." He broke off, suddenly very interested in his feet.

"Just what?" I persisted.

Ferguson looked up at me.

"What happens?" he asked. "If we...don't make it?"

There was a very distinct silence, such as might be made by every soldier within hearing straining their ears to breaking point. I wondered how long they'd been waiting for an answer to that question.

"We'll make it, kid," I told him. "At some point, one side – or probably two or three in this case," I amended; it was turning out to be a very confusing war— "will either get annihilated or surrender. After that, the US will send a list of MIA to the Vietnamese government and ask if any of those soldiers are accounted for in POW camps. Depending on how cooperative the government is, they then start working on releasing those soldiers who are still alive and sending them back home."

I had no idea how accurate this was, but it seemed to reassure Ferguson a little and that was the important thing. If we managed to escape, it wouldn't be our problem, and if we didn't, well, it wouldn't matter.

Ferguson shifted his weight. "And how cooperative do you think the Vietnamese government is likely to be?"

I shrugged. "Depends whether or not they win the war. Winners can usually afford to be magnanimous."

Whether the US would accept magnanimity from a country that was as red-hot on Communism as Vietnam would be if we _did_ lose was another matter, but I didn't say that. Usually I could make a pretty good guess as to which way a country would jump, but public feeling in the US was so strong against the war out here that I wasn't sure _what_ would happen. I loved my country, but I didn't think for one minute that it loved me back. If the government decided that it would be better to leave us here for a few years before petitioning for our release, just to let people calm down, then here was where we would stay until the students stopped protesting our involvement with Vietnam. Why any of those anti-war protestors ever assume us soldiers have a _choice_ about being sent to a war zone is beyond me. I guess it makes sense if you're a student. Those stupid idiots who burned themselves to death in '65 as a kind of protest hadn't helped matters either; for some reason, people were starting to think that the Army was responsible.

"Hannibal?" Ferguson said, interrupting my mental rant before it had a chance to really gather momentum.

I turned back to him. "Yes?"

"You're a colonel, right?" he said rhetorically. "You must know more about what's going on than us grunts."

If he was expecting me to declassify information to satisfy his curiosity, he was going to be disappointed. I would allow – even encourage – a certain amount of informality all the time we were in this camp, but there are limits to everything.

"Go on," I told Ferguson.

"What the hell are we doing here?"

There were a hundred answers I could have given to that question. I could have said that South Vietnam had called on us for help. I could have said that North Vietnam was a Communist country and so that was justification enough for all non-Communists or anti-Communists to beat the crap out of them, or try to, at any rate. I could have said that the US was coming in to defend poor little South Vietnam against the Nasty North Vietnamese Communists (especially since China joined in nearly four years ago to defend poor little North Vietnam against the Nasty South Vietnamese Democrats, or whatever they were). I could have said that it was classified information. I could have taken Ferguson literally and told him that he was here because he'd been captured by Charlie, although I think I'd have bought myself a whole load of trouble in the process.

I looked him straight in the eyes and said seriously, "If you ever figure it out, let me know."

I'd have gotten my ass reamed if a superior officer heard me saying that, but unlike some of my contemporaries, I knew full well that most of the men under my command were not stupid.

Ferguson tightened his lips and nodded once, then turned and walked off.

I sighed. I'd have to keep an eye on him. He wasn't like Young, who would buck authority for the hell of it. Ferguson was a _thinker, _and a little too intelligent for his own good; if _he_ challenged authority, it would be because he'd thought things out and come to the conclusion that the order he'd just been given would not be a good order to obey.

Turning, I walked back to the billet. Murdock was either asleep or unconscious when I got in, so Face and I were as good as alone and I'd been wanting to talk to him for a while. I hadn't been kidding when I said I didn't like being groveled to, but he had let something slip during that little spiel which gave me a flash of insight; he told me he'd been part of a patrol when ambushed by VC, and that he'd been not just the leader of that patrol, but its sole survivor.

"Lieutenant? How many patrols did you take part in before coming here?"

No answer. Irritated – I knew full well he was awake – I grabbed him by his shoulder and rolled him over.

Face's hand shot up and gripped my wrist hard.

"Don't touch me," he grated, separating each word from the others.

I twisted my wrist out of his hold and said coldly, "Then look at me when I speak to you, Lieutenant, and answer the question. How many patrols did you take part in before coming here?"

"What's it to you?"

"Is that the answer you usually give to your commanding officer, Peck?" I demanded.

"No. But he's not here."

In the normal scheme of things, this kind of insubordination would be the cue for me to send the kid on the obstacle course from hell for an entire weekend, and I've acquired something of a reputation in the Army for building particularly nasty courses.

Being in a Vietnamese POW camp is not a normal situation, however, and besides, something told me that this was exactly what Face wanted, to provoke me into some kind of explosion. I wasn't sure _why_ he wanted that – unless he was stupid enough to believe I'd kill him in a blind rage and give him a nice, easy way out of this, and somehow I didn't think that was it – but I wasn't going to give it to him. I tend not to lose my temper unless there's a very good reason for it, and playing into the hands of an obnoxious little brat didn't qualify.

With that in mind, I didn't say anything. Instead I just sat there and waited, never taking my eyes off him.

It worked. It usually does. Being stared at in silence is like an itch in your mind, one you can't scratch and sooner or later most people will say something just to break the silence.

"What now?" he demanded, when he couldn't ignore me any longer.

"How many—" I began again, when Face sat bolt upright and glared at me.

"Just what do I have to do to make you piss off and leave me alone, Colonel?"

So much for third time lucky. Again, I refused to rise to the bait.

"For starters, lose some of the attitude, kid."

"Stop calling me _kid_!"

I kept my expression and voice perfectly neutral as I answered, "You quit acting so much like one and maybe I'll consider it. Now answer the question."

Face turned his head away and I caught hold of his jaw and turned it back again. Usually I'm not this pushy with my men, but this lieutenant had turned my simple question into a power struggle, and I wasn't about to lose. He didn't want to tell me, not because it was classified or because he thought it _might_ be classified, but because telling me would mean giving in to me. The more times he surrendered and obeyed an order, the more control he was giving me over him, and this was a kid who could redefine the words _control freak_.

"Lieutenant, believe me when I say I really have nothing better to do in this place than sit here and annoy you until you decide to cooperate. If you think you can outwait me, well, that's your mistake, but I'm ready to play if you are." I let this sink in, then went on. "Or you can answer my question and I'll leave you alone. How many patrols did you take part in before you came here?"

Some people may have considered this to be a little extreme on my part; after all, did it really matter how many patrols Face had been a part of?

The answer was _yes_, and not just because I couldn't let him win this power play. At some point, I was determined that we were going to get out. Before that happened, however, I wanted to know as much as possible about the men under my command, and that included field experience.

Face muttered something and I glanced at him. "What was that?"

He narrowed his eyes, lip curled. "One, _sir_."

I couldn't help a slight chuckle. "Actually, I didn't hear you."

Face didn't answer, just turned away to face the wall. This time I let him go. I didn't much like it, but I had told the kid I'd leave him alone once he answered my question, and I keep my word.

I lay down on my own cot, staring at the ceiling, mind working.

Poor kid. To lose your entire patrol in an ambush was tough enough, but to lose them on your very first patrol must have been devastating. No wonder he was such an emotional train wreck.

Was that why he had his knife into me so much? Because I was the highest ranking officer and he saw me as a representation of the same Army that had caused him to suffer like that? I didn't think for one minute that Face cared about his men on a personal level, but I didn't believe he actually wanted them dead. Leave him alone and he'd be happy to return the favor.

I never intended to doze off, but I guess I must have because when I woke up it was starting to get dark and I was alone with Murdock, who was still lying motionless. Face had gone outside, either to Piss Alley or to stalk his anger back to a manageable level. I wasn't interested in following him; everyone needs some time to themselves and however much of an attitude Face had, something in me trusted him completely with the rest of the men. BA was outside somewhere, which was fine; it was where I needed him just then.

I sat up and studied Murdock a little more closely. He never complained, but I was sure some of his cuts were infected. Maybe I could try and mix up some kind of stronger antiseptic, although I had no idea how. At the very least, I could use some of the salt water I'd gotten.

"Colonel, no offense, but if ya don't _say_ somethin' insteada just starin' at me, I'm gonna hafta fumigate you with my armpits."

I smiled a little, but not for long. "Think you can sit up?"

Murdock turned his head and frowned at me.

"Sit up?" he repeated. "Why? Are we goin' somewhere?"

"No. I just want to see how bad your back is. C'mon."

I offered him my arm, holding it across him like a bar, and he grabbed hold of it and managed to haul himself upright. There was a nasty moment when I thought he was either going to pass out, fall on top of me, throw up or all of the above, then it passed and he was sitting up, breathing drawn and ragged.

When I was sure he wasn't going to pass out on me, I pulled out Face's razor and used it to slice a ragged piece of fabric off my t-shirt, then soaked the rag in the salt water and started cleaning Murdock's back. He flinched, but didn't try to pull away. The fact that he hadn't tried to protest my using our crude medical supplies on him instead of treating the rest of the men told me just how badly he was hurting.

It looked like I'd gotten to him just in time; several of the injuries on his back were swollen around the edges, which often pointed to infection. Dreading it, already knowing what I was going to feel, I touched one of those edges and Murdock yelped.

"Sorry." I snatched my hand away. "Did that hurt?"

"Nah, it ain't too bad, Colonel, but _jeez, _your hands are cold!"

I couldn't help chuckling a little, although my heart dropped through my boots. My hands weren't cold; not in a stifling little building in Vietnam. Murdock's back was hot, which definitely meant infection.

I tried to think of something to say, but Murdock got there first.

"It's bad, ain't it?"

Quietly, I said, "Yes."

He nodded once. The kid wasn't stupid; if it felt even half as bad as it looked, I wasn't surprised he'd figured it out.

"Am I gonna die?"

"No." The answer came automatically to my lips.

He twisted around, a slight smile on his face. He didn't have the energy to call me a liar just then, but he didn't have to; we both knew what he was thinking.

"_No_," I repeated, with more assurance this time. "Especially not now you're doing as you're told and resting yourself," I couldn't resist adding. "How's your leg?"

"Hurts." He sat there for a few minutes. I could see he was working up to something, and so I just sat there and let him get to it. At last he swallowed hard. "Hannibal?"

"Yes?"

He shifted his weight, staring at his hands, then looked at me. "I'm scared."

It was said in a very small voice, like a kid talking about monsters under the bed.

"I know." Seeing his expression, I repeated, "I know you're scared, son, and it's okay. You've got every right to be scared."

He shook his head. "Officer, remember? We ain't s'posed ta get scared."

"It's alright to be scared, Murdock, just so long as you don't collapse into a sobbing heap in front of the men blubbing about how we're all going to die. That's what I'm here for."

Another painful looking grin. "You're here ta collapse into a sobbin' heap in fronta the men an' blub about how we're all gonna die?"

I swatted him on the neck, which was about the only undamaged part of him I could see. "Don't get smart with your commanding officer, kid."

Murdock bowed his head. "Yes sir."

It was a very good display of meekness, but something told me that it was an act, that he didn't really believe he was in trouble. Probably the fact that I'd been smiling while I told him off. I might demand respect from my men, but that doesn't mean I can't take a joke.

"What I meant was that if you have to lose control, it's better you lose it in front of me than in front of the men."

"Aw, Colonel, I ain't gonna lose control."

I looked at him, no longer smiling. "You lost it before, Murdock, remember? That time when you told me to get the hell away from you, just after they broke you?"

"Hannibal, for the last time, I—"

"Yes you _did_. You can lie to the men all you want to, Captain – I'm not going to drop you in it – but don't you _dare_ lie to me."

"I ain't lyin', Colonel. I'm jus'..." He hesitated.

"Just what?" I pressed.

"Just...massagin' the truth a little. Anyway, I don't see how it matters."

"We've already been through this, Murdock. You really want me to tell you all over again?"

"No sir."

"You sure?" I persisted. "I mean, it's not like I have anything better to do than sit here and talk your ear off on the same subject over and over again."

He managed a grin. "Yeah, I kinda figured. Aw, Hannibal, _when_'re you gonna let me out an' about again? I think my bones're turnin' ta jelly."

"When I decide you're _able_ to get out and about again, Captain, and that's an end to it!" I answered, a little more sharply than I'd intended. Murdock had been bugging me about this ever since I finally managed to confine him to his bed. "And if you keep on about it, it'll be even longer."

Murdock, who had opened his mouth, shut it with a snap and mimed zipping it up, locking it and throwing away the key.

"Better," I told him. "Now lie there and get some rest; I'm going to check on the men."

Murdock unzipped his mouth again. "Are you gonna come back soon?"

I glanced at him and softened a little. It must be pretty boring for him stuck in here. It was boring for me, come to that, but at least I could go and walk around.

"Yes," I told him, and strolled outside.

It was quiet out there. There was no sign of Face, but that didn't bother me. If he'd tried to escape, I would have heard the commotion, unless he was a lot better than he looked. Most of the men were sitting around, a few talking quietly amongst themselves. The guards looked even more bored than we were, although a few were keeping a wary eye on BA, who was standing near the perimeter fence. I wandered over to him, doing my best not to attract too much attention.

"How are you holding up?" I asked him.

BA shrugged. "I'll be okay."

I nodded. BA's tough but he's not stupid and he's learned the hard way about putting on a brave face with me. If he said he was going to be okay, then I believed him. So far Chow hadn't taken him back in for further interrogation, so he was in better shape than a lot of us.

"What do you think of Murdock?"

"Man's hurting bad, Hannibal," BA answered quietly. Like I said, he knows me, and he knew me well enough to know that I wasn't asking him for a personality report. "He ain't gonna last much longer."

I nodded again. That was pretty much the conclusion I'd come to as well. I thought it likely that Murdock's mind would go before his body, but I also thought that if it came to it, Murdock would chew open his own wrists rather than allow that to happen. I didn't believe he'd reached that stage yet – if I had, there was no way I would have left him alone, especially not in the hut containing our only razor – but I'm not really an expert in psychology.

"Yeah," I said aloud.

"An' Peck ain't much of an officer."

"He's young," I reminded my too-outspoken sergeant.

"So's Murdock."

That was true enough. I wasn't looking forward to having Face as my second in command if Murdock _did_ go, although it may not come to that; so far he'd shown no signs of pulling rank or even of being aware of it.

"You can always count on me," BA added. "You know that."

"I will get us out of this, BA." I kept my voice very low, too low for anyone else to have heard. I wasn't surprised he seemed to have read my mind; telepathy is a vital skill for all NCOs.

He heaved a sigh. "Yeah. You an' me, maybe. But what you gonna do about the men here?"

I was silent. There was no real answer to that. Even if by some miracle I managed to get myself and BA out, that would mean leaving the men here under the command of one Lieutenant Peck, and that wasn't fair on either the men or the kid. Add that to the fact that despite my words, I didn't actually have a clue how to get myself out of this hell, let alone take someone with me, and it added up to my being stuck here for the duration.

* * *

**Okay, I know I said on my profile that I'd update this on Friday, but I have an excuse this time; for some reason Fanfiction wouldn't let me onto the login page. I did try ;)**

**Anyway, sorry for the long wait, and hope you liked it!**


	13. Poison

**starfish: ***blushes* Thanks :) And more is here, as requested!

**Q: **Thanks :D I know this may seem hard to believe, given the huge gaps, but I do update as often as I can. Sadly, writer's block has hit hard on this story, hence the long wait, but updates will continue :)

**Potato: **Nope, won't stop here. It'll keep going right up until their daring escape ;)

**dflkjsdaf: **No worries, I haven't stopped this one XD It'll keep going for a good while yet!

**candice: **Yep, here's more ;)

* * *

The next morning I woke up early. I hadn't intended to, but Face and BA were both snoring like a pair of jackhammers and sleep was impossible, so I took a walk outside. There was a rare breeze, enough to lower the temperature and humidity to just about bearable levels.

Early though I might be, I wasn't early enough to beat our new arrival, who, I was surprised to see, had managed to make it to Piss Alley without help. Pretty impressive with a broken leg.

He wasn't doing too badly either, I admitted as I watched him hop and use the edges of various barracks as handholds, but that didn't mean I was going to condone it and so I walked towards him.

Focused as he was on his hopping, he didn't see me until he hopped right into me and very nearly took us both to the ground.

"What are you doing up and about?" I demanded. It wasn't just concern for his welfare that made my voice sharp; it was difficult enough keeping Murdock immobile as it was, and if he were to see this soldier hobbling around, it would get a hell of a lot _more _difficult. Murdock was a damn good officer, but he was also a very _young_ officer, and I was certain he had yet to outgrow the _if-that-guy-can-do-it-then-why-can't-I_ school of argument.

"I, uh, had to go."

Well, ask a stupid question, I suppose.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Private Hayward. You?"

"Colonel Smith."

I saw the look of _oh shit _flicker across his face and took pity on him before he could babble himself into a very deep hole.

"We don't stand much on ceremony here," I told him. "What's your specialty, Hayward?"

"Medic, sir."

Oh, great. _Wonderful_. We finally had a medic and he had a broken leg and couldn't get around to do his job. I wanted to scream with frustration, and if I'd had access to a private room and nice thick pillow to muffle the noise, I think I might have done just that.

Well, at least he might have some theories about what Allen and Haines had gone down with, which would be a lot more than I did just then. I was fairly sure I'd never come across it before, but then I guess I'm not a medic.

Despite what most people might think, I didn't believe that the VC were experimenting with germ warfare. Well, no, let me rephrase that; I _did_ believe it was the kind of thing they'd do, I just didn't think they were doing it here for the simple reason that none of them seemed to be coming down with the same bug. Whatever it was, it seemed to travel in the air. From what little I'd managed to glean about the time before I showed up here, Bateman had had this mysterious disease first and he'd died, closely followed by Haines and Allen.

I cast my mind back to that first day in that hut when I'd met Allen and replayed it frame by frame, trying to remember anything that might have indicated that the man was sick.

No good. Apart from the fact I'd had a screaming headache at the time, I'd been so wrapped up in trying to figure out where I was and what I was going to do that I doubted I'd have noticed anything wrong with Allen unless he'd happened to be coughing his lungs out in front of me.

"Sir? What happens now? I mean...well..."

I jerked back to the present and looked at him. "Well, first of all, you and I are going to sit down before you damage that leg of yours for good. Then, if our hosts are in a good mood, we might get some bread this morning. Try and make it last; they only feed us once a day and sometimes not even that."

As it turned out, I was wrong about that, although I very soon wished I wasn't. That morning, there was an additional helping of some kind of rice dish, enough of it for all the men to have some. I wondered if our boys outside had somehow managed to screw something up; the irony of American POWs eating a special meal to commemorate an American fubar would probably appeal to Chow. Hell, it appealed to _me_ – I'm a great lover of irony – although I'd never have admitted it.

Two hours later, every man in the camp was curled up on the floor, choking and vomiting their guts out. The only exceptions were Face and me, since Face had refused to eat the food on the grounds that it was probably poisoned (and was showing signs of becoming annoyingly smug at being proved right) and I'd been more focused on feeding my men than myself.

"So what is this?" Face wondered, settling himself a little more firmly against the outside wall of D Barracks, which is where I'd moved BA and Murdock. Puking in front of the guards was humiliating, but it was a hell of a lot better than doing it in that tiny little hut where we all slept. "Some kinda poison?"

"Could be salmonella."

"Salmonella doesn't grow on _rice_, Murdock," Face retorted. He glanced at me for confirmation, but I just shrugged. I had no idea whether it did or not.

Murdock retched two or three times – the noise and action was so common now that we just sat there waiting for him to finish – then said weakly, "Sure it does, Faceman. Fact, it grows so well an' so quick on rice that it's what they use in labs. Y'know, if they wanna grow a batch for study."

Face shrugged. "Then I guess I'm glad I didn't have any of it. I never did like spoiled food."

"This ain't spoiled." BA was holding up better than the rest of the men, although I thought that was more due to pride than constitution. He'd only been under my command for about four months (or to be more accurate, I'd only managed to get him transferred to my battalion four months ago; we were still working on his taking commands from me) but I knew enough to know that he viewed any show of weakness as, well, a weakness.

"Yeah. He's right." Murdock let out a rattling groan and clutched his stomach a little tighter. "Had me plenty a spoiled food on—" more retching— "on Skid Row. Soon's I threw it up, I got better."

I raised my eyebrows and exchanged a look with BA. Murdock, a street kid? It seemed the only logical explanation – people didn't hang around Skid Row for the dazzling scenery or sparkling conversation – but something didn't quite fit...not least the little fact that whatever his accent was, it sure as hell wasn't Californian.

"Is that where you learned that headbutt move?"

Murdock gave a weak chuckle. "Yeah, ya pick these things up pretty fast in that kinda neighborhood, Colonel."

Skid Row. How had this Southern boy ended up on the streets of LA, California? At some point I'd have to pin Murdock down and get his entire life story from him, once he'd stopped vomiting up his guts. He was coughing rather hard now and I was seriously worried about him.

"Murdock?"

He glanced at me, but I don't think he had the strength left to answer me.

"Wait here. I'm going to get you some water." The VC weren't overly generous when it came to food, but we did have large containers of water that were refilled every day. Whether or not they pissed in it before giving it to us, I never found out. I didn't want to know, to tell you the truth.

I'd made it all the way to one of those containers and was filling a cup for Murdock (and anyone else who needed it; I could see me becoming a water carrier in the not-too-distant future) when they came for me. Two guards, both armed of course; there was no point taking chances with any prisoner, and I was too valuable for them to risk my escaping. The thought that running from two armed guards toward several _more_ armed guards – none of which were on my side – would be tantamount to suicide didn't seem to have entered their heads.

"Hi guys, I said as brightly as I could.

Neither of them bothered to answer; instead they just grabbed me and half marched, half shoved me towards the gate. From there I was escorted into the same room where I'd first met Chow, only this time the table was a lot barer, having only a few cups and a pot of coffee on it. I guess they didn't want to risk my throwing more food out the window. The damn coffee was probably lukewarm as well; there was no way even the most stupid officer would put scalding liquid anywhere that a prisoner could reach it.

"Smith. How are you feeling?"

Not again. "Fine, thanks. You?"

"Your men seem a little out of sorts, Lieutenant-Colonel." Did Chow _know_ that most soldiers didn't bother with the Lieutenant part of my rank, or was he just doing it to bug me?

I was just wondering what the VC equivalent of a Lieutenant-Colonel was, or if they even had one, when a soft tap drew my attention back to the table. Chow had just placed a small bottle of pills on the table.

"I believe some of your men may have contracted some kind of virus. This should help speed their recovery."

I didn't twitch so much as a muscle towards it. "What's the catch?"

"I want answers, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith. _Accurate_ answers. I am sure even you must agree that your own commanding officer would have difficulty getting a detailed report out of your men all the time they are..." He hesitated.

"Indisposed," Angel put in.

The look he got from Chow suggested that the general hadn't meant for him to fill in that particular blank. As it happened, I did agree with what he said, but that didn't mean I was going to tell him so.

"What makes you think I care?" I said.

Chow smiled a little at that. "You care, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith. I imagine that even now you are trying to work out how to steal those pills without my seeing you."

"Wrong, pal," I informed him, with perfect truth. I wasn't trying to work out how to steal those pills without Chow spotting me, because I knew it wasn't possible...at least, not for me.

"Ah? Then you won't object to our interrogating your second-in-command a little further. Or perhaps one of your other men. Tell me, since you don't care about them, who do _you_ think I should question?"

There was only one answer to that.

"Me."

"How very noble." Chow sipped at his coffee. "Unfortunately that wasn't one of the options."

I shrugged, my heart thudding in my chest. I was right in volunteering myself as opposed to any of the men, but that didn't mean I was happy about it or looking forward to the likely outcome.

"Hey, you didn't specify. Besides, I'm a colonel. You'd get far more useful information out of me than you would my men."

Chow sighed. "Correction, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith; you are in _possession_ of far more useful information than your men. Getting it out of you is another matter entirely."

I shrugged again. He was right about that.

Angel cleared his throat. "Smith—"

"_Colonel_ Smith to you, slimeball." There wasn't much I could do about Chow's method of addressing me, but I was damned if I'd take it from this little turncoat.

"You're not in command here," Angel said flatly.

"Neither are you. Out of interest, General, tell me; if a Cong soldier did what Angel's done – you know, deserted his post, joined the US forces and told them everything he knew and helped them in any way he could – what would the penalty be?"

"Death."

"Really?" I raised my eyebrows and glanced at Angel. "What do you know? Same here."

"Are you going to help us?" Chow asked, a slight edge in his voice.

"I didn't cooperate when you tortured me, Chow. I'm not going to do it just because you ask nicely. And in case you'd forgotten, you're also trying to murder my men."

Chow raised delicate eyebrows. "I believe, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, that any soldier killed in war by the other side is referred to as a _casualty_ of war. You Americans are at war with us, therefore whatever happens to you and your men cannot possibly be considered _murder_."

I managed to straighten up, although it was hard. "You're forgetting one thing, Chow. That whole casualty of war thing doesn't apply when you're talking about _prisoners_ of war."

Chow, who I think was about as unsure of his ground as I was on that score, did what many put-upon senior officers do when confronted with an awkward topic; he changed the subject.

"Perhaps we should discuss this in a more civilized manner." He poured out a cup of coffee and placed it on the table, then topped up his own from the same pot. "Please. Drink."

I glanced at the liquid and heard myself echoing Face's accusation. "Right. What did you do, Chow; piss in it?"

Chow clicked his tongue. "Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, you will never be much of an officer unless you learn to stop passing your subordinates' opinions off as your own."

"I'll take that as a yes, then," I said, and smiled at him. It was a genuine smile this time; Chow had just made a serious tactical blunder and in doing so, given me a pretty useful piece of information.

"Did you find my words funny, Smith?"

Too easy. My smile broadened and I said pleasantly, "I find everything about you funny, Chow."

One of the guards slammed me to the ground and I clutched at the tablecloth as I fell, pulling it (and everything on it) down on top of me, including the little bottle of pills. I wish I could say I'd planned it that way, but the truth is that it was just one of those lucky coincidences, once I figured I had about five seconds to exploit.

I grabbed the bottle, cracked the top off and shook a few of the small tablets out into my hand, then replaced the cap. Chow would have missed the bottle, but I was willing to bet that he hadn't counted the pills. I curled the hand holding the pills into a fist and pressed it against my side, hoping they would think I'd bruised my ribs or something.

Someone aimed a kick at me, although I was so tangled in the tablecloth that it wasn't too hard. I had no idea who it was; about all I could say for certain was that it wasn't Angel. If he was ever brought to trial (and if we got out, I was going to do everything in my power to make that happen) his lawyer would say that the slimy little worm simply broke under torture and wasn't thinking straight, regretted it, yadda yadda yadda. If he kicked a superior officer, that escalated things onto a whole new level.

"Take him out of here," Chow said, much to my surprise. I'd expected another round of torture, or at least a far more severe beating than the kick I'd got.

Getting me out was easier said than done, however. Not because I was stupid enough to fight the guards, but because after falling, surreptitiously playing around with the pill bottle and being kicked across the floor, I was now well and truly entangled in the tablecloth and the only really effective way to get me out would be with a pair of scissors. Since none of the guards seemed inclined to cut up their general's tablecloth (funny, that) they had to do it the old fashioned way and try to pull it off.

I lay completely still and let them get on with it. If I tried to wriggle free myself, some trigger-happy idiot would take that as an attack or an escape attempt, and either way it wasn't going to be pretty for me.

Eventually, of course, they managed it and I was dragged back outside and tossed on the ground like so much garbage, my mind in a turmoil. Being thrown back so soon unnerved me more than another session of interrogation would have...unless, of course, Chow thought that I wouldn't survive another round of Twenty Questions (VC style) so soon after the last one. He was wrong if that were the case – he was _very_ wrong – but I didn't feel much like correcting him just then. The guy must have some kind of ulterior motive, but I was damned if I could figure out what it was just then.

I waited for several minutes, waited until I was sure none of the guards were nearby, then pushed myself to my feet, wincing. There was a sharp pain across my ribs where that bastard had kicked me, and I thought that at least one of them was cracked.

I still had a handful of the small pills Chow had offered me. It wasn't nearly enough for all the men, but it would be better than nothing.

I didn't bother offering one to Murdock, since I knew him well enough by now to know that he would insist I give it to one of the men and I was feeling a little too tired to have that particular argument with him. Instead, I waited until he wasn't looking and dropped it in his water.

"So there was something in the rice?" Face said rhetorically. "Boy, I'm glad I didn't eat any."

"We know," BA grated. Face had been making this point for most of the day, and if he'd kept making it while I was in with Chow, then it was a good thing BA was too weak to pummel him.

"Guess paranoia can sometimes—" Murdock began, then broke off. There was a short pause, then he said in a completely different tone of voice, "Hannibal, _why_ is my water all fizzy?"

"Never mind that, Murdock. Just drink."

Murdock gave me a suspicious look. "Did you put somethin' in my—"

"Yes, I _did_, soldier, now _drink it and that's an order_!" I put on my best _don't-screw-with-me_ voice and it seemed to work; he swallowed whatever protest he'd been about to make and gulped down the water.

"Tastes lousy."

"It's supposed to. It's medicine."

That even got a tiny smile from Face. "Have I told you guys how happy I am that I didn't eat any of that food?"

That reminded me; I had something important to do and now I wasn't in danger of being yanked away by Charlie for a while, I thought I could get down to it.

Getting to my feet, I started examining the walls of our billet, running my fingers over and into every groove and crevice I could find. It cost me a lot of rummaging around and wall-prodding, not to mention I was getting funny looks from Face and Murdock (BA's used to me doing seemingly random things) but at last I found a tiny microphone concealed in a corner and yanked it out.

The others stared at it, then to my surprise, something very much like humor lit up Face's eyes and he made a _pass-it-here _gesture.

I held it out to him, but he didn't take it. Instead he put two fingers in his mouth and let rip with the loudest, most ear-splitting whistle I'd ever heard.

There was a very faint crash from the direction of Chow's base. It sounded suspiciously like...oh, say, a VC soldier shoving himself away from a listening device and falling on his butt, and dragging half his equipment with him.

We all stared at each other for a few seconds and then cracked up. Even BA, not known for his sense of humor, was laughing.

"How did you know it was there?" Face asked me.

I shrugged, crushing the microphone under my heel. "I didn't, but I knew it was somewhere. You remember what you said to me when I offered you half my food?"

To my surprise, he went brilliant red. "Uh...kinda."

I could read the silent _please don't tell the others_ look in his eyes and altered what I'd been going to say. If the kid wanted to start over, he deserved that chance.

"Well, I said the same thing to Chow when he offered me a drink. He said I'd never be much of an officer unless I learned to stop passing my subordinates' opinions off as my own."

Face squirmed slightly – I don't think he liked being referred to as a subordinate – but didn't say anything other than, "So...?"

"Well, he'd know you were ranked beneath me, Face, because I imagine that somewhere he's got a list of all our names and ranks. But you and I were the only ones here for that little conversation. The only one who could have told Chow about it would be us, or Angel. I know you're not a snitch, kid, and neither am I, and Angel was nowhere to be seen. The only way he could have known you said it first was if he'd had an ear on us."

"Oh." For a moment, his mask fell off and I saw the intelligent, curious kid that lay beneath it. "Yeah. I guess that makes sense."

"Sure it does. C'mon Lieutenant. Let's take a walk."

Face muttered something under his breath, but got to his feet and so I let it go. If I challenged every man who grumbled about an order, not only would I never stop but I'd make myself a prime candidate for World's Biggest Hypocrite in the process.

I left Murdock in BA's tender care and took Face around to debug the rest of the barracks. Once I deliberately passed over a microphone, so Face could 'find' what I'd missed, giving him a much needed boost to his self-esteem. I hadn't been kidding when I'd said he could be a good soldier; there was something about him that drew me to him. Part of being a senior officer (one of my favorite parts, in fact) is mentoring the junior ones, and I thought Face was worth a little time.

I also distributed the seven remaining pills. One went to Hayward; we needed a medic. The others were a little harder. How was I supposed to pick six people out of over sixty? I toyed with the idea of giving the pills to one of the men to distribute, then dismissed that idea. It would have been nice to throw it at someone and let them pick for me, but shirking responsibility wasn't a good trait for an officer.

In the end I gave one to Alvarez on the basis that I needed another NCO besides BA, one each to Gabney and Ferguson (I'd already learned that if you gave something to one, you had to give it to the other) one to Tennon, one to a corporal called Cavill who was showing signs of above average initiative and the last to one of the Navy guys called Reyes, which I didn't really want to do, but I didn't want any complaints of Army favoritism following me out either.

That done, I decided to take a walk around the camp, which I doubted would take longer than about five minutes, but which passed the time and at least got me out of the stifling heat of the officers' billet.

I was halfway around my sixth circuit when someone cleared their throat behind me.

"Colonel?"

I turned and came face to face with Tennon. "Yes?"

Tennon shifted his weight a little awkwardly. "Uh...can I talk to you, sir? Privately?"

_That_ was asking a lot, I thought. Privacy was a thing of the past; about the only place you could semi-guarantee the guards wouldn't spy on you was Piss Alley, and the stink from there wasn't conducive to any kind of long-term heart to hearts.

"What about?"

Tennon lowered his voice so much I had to practically lipread.

"Ferguson's got a plan to get us out, sir. I think it could work."

I hesitated. I've never been one of those officers who objects to taking advice from the men under their command, but Ferguson was something of a hothead and I had a nasty suspicion that any plan of his would run along the lines of the Charge of the Light Brigade...not to mention that they'd probably discussed this plan for some time before I'd come along, which meant the VC had been listening in via the bugs.

Then again, it couldn't hurt to hear him out. If it was good, maybe some of it could be adapted; if not, at least we'd be no worse off than we were now.

"Alright. Tell me."

* * *

**AN: **_I am truly sorry for the long wait between chapters; as a reader, I know how frustrating it is. Unfortunately writer's block continues to hammer this story. I promise I haven't abandoned it and will keep writing, and the next chapter will be up as soon as possible. Thanks to everyone for being so patient :) As always, reviews are appreciated :)_


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